Rebuilding
by katreeny
Summary: Kink meme de-anon. Prussia wakes after the dissolution to discover that everything has changed in not-at-all-awesome ways.
1. Chapter 1

Prussia had never liked coming back from mortal wounds. It was better than fading, sure, but he'd never been one of those fortunate sorts who managed to be among friends when he died.

No, when Prussia died it was usually on a battlefield – and he did his best to take the bastard who killed him with him – or he'd been wounded and was being executed for something or other. Sometimes – less likely these days although the Austrian prick had been a shining arsehole of an exception – for nothing more than his red eyes and silver-white hair.

Since the last thing he remembered this time around was being tied to a pole because having his nation dissolved hurt so fucking much he couldn't stand straight, then watching a vengeful England pump bullets into his heart until finally – _finally_ – everything faded to merciful blackness, Prussia doubted he was going to return to anything he'd enjoy.

While his body slowly warmed and his senses began to function again – bringing, inevitably, more pain than Prussia wanted to think about – he tried to get some idea where he was.

Cold was the first thing he noticed. Stale air, not much circulation, and a faint dusty, decayed smell. Clammy air, hint of damp salt. And nothing to suggest that anyone was anywhere close.

Odd. He'd half expected to wake in some British prison for another round of vengeance – or worse, a Russian one. Russia wanted him alive, for reasons Prussia doubted he'd enjoy.

He hadn't been buried - there was too much air around him for that - and he lay in a bizarre mockery of the usual laying out position for a corpse, with his arms folded over his chest. One hand was clasped around the familiar shape of his Iron Cross, which he _hadn't_ had when he'd been executed.

_Bless you, West. _His brother must have convinced the Allies Prussia was going to stay dead and secreted him somewhere out of the way, although why Germany had laid him out in clothes that could only have belonged to a giant... His feet swam in the boots he wore, and even before he was fully back he could feel the looseness of the clothes, feel the fabric puddling around him.

Movement at last, a twitch or two first, then Prussia slowly climbed to his feet, hissing under his breath as every move made stiff muscles burn and caught the many wounds that had healed but only on the surface. He was used to that, to skin that closed and rarely scarred but hurt for much longer beneath the smooth surface, but everything felt wrong, and the cave... no, old mine with crystalline salt reflecting what little light crept down here from the surface...

Prussia blinked. Surely Germany didn't...

He turned slowly. He was in a small niche, not really visible from the main shaft if his eyes weren't deceiving him. The place was barely high enough for him: he could feel his hair brushing the ceiling.

The first step Prussia took he nearly tripped in the too-large boots.

Irritably, he moved to unlace them, and froze. Those were not his hands.

_His_ hands were broad, callused from untold years of wielding his sword. These were a child's hands, unscarred, unmarked, and – in the ultimate insult – _delicate_.

Prussia's stomach knotted as he pushed the overlong sleeve back to reveal an equally childish arm. Thin, scrawny even. No sign of the muscle he'd built over his lifetime.

A panicked look in his pants confirmed the worst. That was not his awesome five meters down there. It was the undeveloped equipment of a child.

"_Fuck_." Prussia sat down hard enough to jar his spine. He remembered everything, but his body had changed. Reverted to somewhere between ten and twelve. He wasn't wearing a giant's clothes at all: these were his clothes, the clothes of the man he'd been far too large for the scrawny child he'd become.

His voice, too... high pitched and childish.

Shit. This was _bad_.

Bad enough that the Allies would want to kill him again if he showed his face – and Russia would probably want to do worse than that. But like this, he couldn't defend himself. He was worse than helpless, colony-bait for whoever happened to figure it out.

At least his people were still his people, somehow. Whatever the Allies had done to dissolve his nation still hurt, but it hadn't taken his people from him. Reaching them felt a bit like diving into an acid bath, but they were _there_.

Prussia closed his eyes. First things first. He needed to ditch the clothes and make it look like he'd faded. Cruel as that might be to his brother, Germany was possibly the worst liar in the world, so Prussia had to make everything look real. He could apologize later, if there was one.

Then... find somewhere to hide until he returned to his normal self and the Allies calmed down. A few years ought to be enough.

Prussia hoped.


	2. Chapter 2

Berlin, Prussia's second heart, the one he shared with his brother, was almost unrecognizable. His first heart, Koenigsberg, was already lost with the Soviets replacing the Prussians there with Russians and destroying everything that made it his. Only they weren't allowed to be Prussian any more. They had to be German.

The thought tasted of ash and defeat.

He'd been drawn here by his people despite the danger to his awesome self – and the not remotely awesome child's body that self was currently trapped in – their need and loss and confusion calling him as surely as any summons. It hadn't been easy: the salt mine where his brother had left him was the same one Old Fritz had rested in to spare his remains from the war.

And the other nations thought Germany had no sense of humor.

Prussia knew too well his brother's humor turned to the darkly ironic. He could have lived without it choosing his temporary tomb, _especially_ since said tomb was deep in the American occupation zone and about as far as he could get from either of his hearts and still be in German lands.

Then there'd been the little matter of clothing that would fit his apparently ten year old self. He wasn't about to steal from his own people – or his brother's people, come to that – which left him scavenging corpses in the areas that hadn't been cleaned up. The ghoulish exercise left him unwilling to consider food for days, but at least now he had the relative luxury of dark wool trousers that were only a little too big and a belt to hold them up, a much-patched shirt that had probably been white once but was now mostly gray and whatever color the patches happened to be, shoes that almost fit, and a trench coat that was too big for him but kept him warm in the bleak winter nights.

He'd found a hat, too, a battered, too-big newsboy cap that hid his silver-white hair and let him pull the brim low enough to keep his eyes in shadow, so they'd merely look dark.

Now, as he wandered the ruins of his Berlin, Prussia wondered why he'd bothered. Russian soldiers were everywhere, angry, looking for the slightest chance to visit still more brutality on his people. God, it hurt to see, and hurt more to feel it, because the pain from the dissolution wasn't going away and made it agony to feel what his people felt.

The tears that he couldn't keep back had to be pain, because he was too tough – even in this stupid child's body – to cry over a lost war. Over the devastation it brought.

Fuck, this one hadn't even been his doing. Neither of them had, really. Austria had dragged them into the first one, but he'd taken the punishment for that without – much – complaint because that was how war worked. The winners decided what to do to the losers.

This time, though... The fucking Allies treated Austria as the victim because he'd been forcibly unified with Germany, but never a word about how _Prussia_ had suffered the same fate. No, he was Prussia, warmonger, monster, red-eyed demon of slaughter, and when he'd seen the way the show trial was going he'd played that up to spare his brother. His brother who'd lost his mind and soul back in the thirties and only started to get it back when the Austrian prick died.

His stomach growled, reminding him – again – that this child's body couldn't endure as much as he'd been accustomed to dealing with as an adult. He needed to eat, and soon. Which wasn't likely, since he didn't have a single mark on him.

He'd need to beg for it, or maybe see if he could find a halfway sympathetic soldier and offer to do some kind of errand running for him. Kids did that sort of thing all the time, and soldiers – particularly occupying soldiers – always had cash.

If he picked one of the younger Russians, he might be able to earn himself a few marks – not that the currency was worth much anymore, but it would be enough to get him something to eat – and maybe a reputation as a reliable, helpful child. He'd just have to throttle his abused pride and deal with it.

Too late, his blunted senses registered the presence of another nation nearby, looming through the pain that made it impossible to feel his people properly. A heavy hand dropped on his shoulder, and a deep voice with a rolling accent that echoed the endless steppes said, "And what do we have here?"

The hand was followed by a deft spin, and Prussia found himself staring at the middle of a cream colored coat. He looked up.

And up. Russia towered over him now, a giant to a ten year old who wasn't exactly tall for his age.

Prussia couldn't have suppressed the squeak that emerged from his mouth if he'd tried, nor could he have stopped himself trying to back away from the Russian giant. Adult Prussia blustered and boasted to hide how much Russia's presence intimidated him: child Prussia was too startled to even try.

Russia smiled broadly, and pulled Prussia into a crushing embrace. "Ah, I have been looking for you, yes?"

Prussia's eyes opened wide and he tried without success to squirm free.

"You look so like much your big brother," Russia added. "But you will not be so destructive, little East Germany, yes?"

_...the fuck...?_ Even that confused thought didn't get far. Russia wasn't giving him room to move, or to think.

"You will be coming home with me, little one, and being my little brother, yes?"

While Prussia tried to work out what could possibly constitute a safe answer, his body had other ideas. "Is there food?"

Russia chuckled softly, the low, creepy laughter that sounded like he wanted to kill something. "Of course, East. I will look after you properly, little one, and protect you from the world, yes."

At least Russia seemed to think he was a newly-spawned nation. That might make this safer – because there was no way his useless child's body was going to get away from Russia.


	3. Chapter 3

Russia led him through the ruined city, Prussia's small hand completely engulfed in his. If the Russian held a little too tightly, well, that was to be expected: everyone knew Russia forgot how much stronger he was than anyone except America.

He wasn't _trying _to hurt Prussia.

The comments about how the Soviet army camp was the only place where food could be reliably obtained were a different matter: it might be true, but Prussia felt every one as an insult to his people, his people who hadn't wanted this war, who'd been dragged into it because _Germany_ had forcibly unified their nations – and that memory, suppressed for years with all the force Prussia could manage, made him stop short with his free hand clenched tight and his eyes squeezed shut so he wouldn't cry in front of Russia.

"East?" Russia sounded concerned.

"Just... stop talking about my people like they're useless!" In this wretched child's body his voice came out as a whine rather than a growl. "It wasn't their fault."

Russia paused, and crouched so he was at eye-level with Prussia. "You have some of your big brother Prussia's memories, yes?"

There wasn't much he could say to that, so Prussia just nodded.

The bigger nation pulled him into a tight embrace. "Oh, little one. War is never kind, and for you it will be especially hard." He actually sounded like he regretted that. "A new nation born from a lost war... I will protect you as much as I can, East."

Prussia hated that he found the warmth of the adult nation's arms and body comforting. He'd never really had a father: Germania didn't comfort anyone, not like this. He couldn't remember anyone ever holding him just to make him feel better. He'd told himself for years he didn't need that kind of sappy shit, even though he hadn't hesitated to dispense said sappy shit whenever Germany had needed it.

That was different. Germany had been born of the collapse of the Holy Roman Empire, the desire of the Germanic peoples for unity too strong to be denied even though it wasn't strong enough to sustain Holy Rome. Prussia had never been sure whether the kid was Holy Rome or not: he remembered things that only Holy Rome would know, but never consistently. It could just be the echo that came when a new nation replaced one recently dead.

In any case, unlike Prussia who'd been born for battle and excelled at all things warlike, Germany was at heart a unifier. The madness that had overcome him with that Austrian prick boss was just not the Germany Prussia had raised, although the meticulous organization of the horrors he'd perpetrated... that was Germany through to the core.

The memory of that damned forced unification rose again, and Prussia shoved it to the back of his mind once more, but not before his wretched child's body shuddered and a fresh round of tears threatened. This was so fucking annoying!

Russia rubbed his back a little more firmly than necessary, then, before Prussia realized what he intended he was hoisted into the air and sat on the bigger nation's shoulders. Like a father would do for a son...

He swallowed and wrapped his arms around Russia's head, trying not to put his hands anywhere that might be interpreted as an attack.

"There, now." Russia started walking again. "I will try not to insult your people, East," he said as he strode through the too-quiet streets, past ruins and guards and frightened people who averted their eyes from the giant Russian with the boy on his shoulders. "Though I don't understand how... How they could be innocent of this horrible war."

Prussia shuddered again, his eyes burning. "Preussenschlag," he whispered. "Prussia became one with Germany..." He had to force each word out past the memories he wished with all his soul he could forget. "It was... forced... hurt so much."

He felt Russia's growl vibrate against his legs. The curse – in Russian, and impressively vile – which followed made Prussia wonder if he should try to run.

Not that he could.

Russia gently pried his clenched fists open. "I will not hurt you, East." His voice was cold though, angry. "You had no part in this." A long pause, then more softly, "Though why Prussia would _protect_ his brother after such a betrayal is beyond my understanding."

Thankfully there was no need to reply to that comment. Prussia wasn't sure what he could say: that he'd protected Germany because he knew his brother hadn't been sane at the time wouldn't go far with a nation who'd spent much of the past fifty years on the wrong side of sanity. Besides, he didn't know how much shared memory a replacement nation would have.

Based on what he'd seen from Germany, incidents with the strongest emotions were most likely to carry over. Since Prussia had no shortage of those in his history, he could probably keep this masquerade going for a while, although he hoped – fuck, _prayed_ as he hadn't done since he'd been the Teutonic Knights and full of the glory of God – he wouldn't have to.

Then they reached the Russian encampment – more a barracks, really, being in the middle of Berlin – and the smell of food overwhelmed the confused, disturbing thoughts spinning through a mind and body too young to handle them.


	4. Chapter 4

Despite the danger, the need to stay awake and aware, once Prussia had eaten his fill of the plain food served in the Russian camp, once he was warm with his belly full, his eyes drifted closed and he was only vaguely aware of Russia carrying his half-asleep self through the camp, opening a door and setting him down on... a car's back seat?

Warmth draping over him, the smell of clean wool. Blanket, his fuzzy mind supplied.

He couldn't remember the last time he'd been this comfortable, the last time he'd been able to eat all he wanted and curl up to sleep somewhere warm. While he'd been in Allied custody he'd had the bare minimum – starvation rations, most likely to ensure he wouldn't have the strength to escape, although the official rationale was that food was short everywhere. He hadn't been allowed within sight of his brother, but he'd been aware of Germany's hunger and cold, and his despair as his mind and soul returned to him and he began to understand what he'd done.

Before that... after he'd been caught twisting the terms of that fucking forced union – if he was going to be honest with himself, he'd been described by one of the conspirators in one of the failed plots to kill the Austrian shit, and his appearance was more than a little distinctive – he'd spent... god, was it two or three years? in Auschwitz at the mercy of that prick of a so-called doctor, and died more times than he'd bothered to count. There'd been no food, and shelter only to keep his presence there from all but the small number of men allowed to know of it.

Prussia pushed his sleepy, meandering thoughts away from those memories. He didn't need to be dwelling on that and giving himself nightmares, especially since sleep seemed to be a fucking given.

At least the dissolution, for all the pain it caused him, was enough to finally weaken the bond created by the Preussenschlag to where he could focus on what was right for _his_ people. He'd probably be able to give his brother the middle finger salute again, too, and God wasn't that desperately needed?

The churning mechanical sound of a motor turning over, then the low roar as it caught sent vibrations through the vehicle, scattering Prussia's thoughts. He slid against the back of the seat as the car started moving, unable to will himself to even open his eyes to see where Russia was taking him.

Not that he needed to look, really. He was being taken to Russia's home, to Moscow. And Russia's home was possibly the safest place he could be.

He wouldn't be facing England for a long time, wouldn't need to deal with France who had never really accepted that Prussia had no choice in what he'd done there. Wouldn't need to choke down hatred and resentment over fucking Austria getting the favored treatment as the poor wounded hard-done-by nation while Germany rebuilt from the ashes of the war.

His own battered pride was a different issue, and he'd find a way to choke it enough to survive. To rebuild himself.

He drifted to sleep with half-formed ideas for plans dancing through his mind.

#

Prussia wasn't sure what pulled him from sleep, but his child's body didn't want to leave that peaceful state despite what sounded like an argument conducted in whispers – presumably to avoid waking him.

He wasn't in the car any more: instead he lay on a couch whose leather upholstery had seen better days and smelled mostly of dust, the soft blanket from the car still wrapped around his body.

At least two others were nearby, but he couldn't tell who they were from their presence. He was too tired to reach past the constant pain for that.

"... the wrong brother!" someone hissed.

A different speaker, this one calmer, but Prussia couldn't identify who it was from the voiceless whisper. "You are certain of this?"

The choked sound must have been the first speaker. "I know what I saw, and you know I have no fondness for Pr... _him_."

The thoughtful one again. Prussia thought the cadence of the words was Russia's. "I know, my friend. I believe you are correct about this... complication. Had I realized I would never have turned him over to the others, yes." Russia then, but what did he mean by that? Why the clear regret in his words?

Prussia couldn't make sense of it.

The other man sighed. "How much does the little one remember?"

The sound of fabric shifting: presumably Russia shrugged. "I do not know. He has some of the memories, the worst ones, I think."

Prussia was fading back to sleep, too tired and comfortable to be able to hold on to awareness and actually follow the conversation.

The other speaker clicked his tongue. "Poor child. To come into the world like this and be saddled with that history." A sigh. "You need not fear my... disagreements with _him_ will affect how I treat the child, Mr Russia."

_Lithuania_, Prussia thought sleepily. How peculiar. The world must have turned inside out for Lithuania to defend him.

Russia's soft whisper might have been something he needed to know, but he couldn't make the words out, and soon, he was asleep again.


	5. Chapter 5

When Prussia woke – really woke, with his stomach knotted with hunger and the pain that hadn't ever stopped dulled a bit – he found himself in a bed that dwarfed him, in a room that should have been grand but all the ornamentation and precious decorations had been taken away leaving darker patches on the faded blue wallpaper and bare metal instead of the decorative painted panels with their gold leaf and fanciful moldings that had once covered the ceilings.

He knew the room: it was one of Russia's guest rooms, but the last time he'd stayed here, back around the Three Emperors Pact, it had been a lavish, luxurious retreat from the bitter and often contentious negotiations. Now the huge bed was all that remained of the elegant furnishings, and it had had the four posts and the canopy removed, along with the velvet hangings and the fine linens.

He lay on sheets of plain cotton, under coarse woolen blankets, and the windows were unadorned with only plain wooden shutters to block out the light. There was a battered old desk against the inside wall, a plain wooden chair beside it, the huge hearth – the marble was long gone, leaving only bare wood where it had been stripped away, but someone had lit a fire in the hearth, and it warmed the room nicely – opposite the bed, and that was all.

He could see snow falling outside, flurries of white against a gray sky.

If Prussia remembered right, one of the doors on either side of the fireplace led to a closet that qualified as its own room, and the other to servants quarters – not that he expected either to hold what they once had. It looked like the Communist regime wanted the Russian nation to live with no more luxuries than his people – and never mind that the bosses got whatever the fuck _they_ wanted. That was bosses for you.

He slipped from the bed, squashing relief that he didn't sway on his feet, then winced when he realized that his bladder was overfull. Standing up really put the pressure on, and the too-large pajamas someone had put on him didn't help.

Prussia was half afraid if he tried to move too fast he'd trip over himself and then wet himself into the bargain.

He shuffled carefully to the chair, sat with his legs crossed to try to hold the inevitable back. It was awkward trying to roll up the pajama legs while he did that and the room wasn't quite as warm as he'd thought at first: his bare feet chilled quickly.

When the main door opened and Russia looked in, Prussia couldn't have hidden his relief if he'd tried.

"East?"

"I um..." He blushed. Stupid child's body reacting over stupid shit. "I need to _go_, please."

Russia blinked, then his surprised, blank look cleared like the winter sun emerging from cloud. "Oh, the lavatory. Of course."

Before Prussia could protest that he could walk there himself, he just didn't know where it was, he was in Russia's arms being carried through a hall that looked nothing like the palace he remembered.

At least the big nation let him do his business on his own. He really didn't need anyone else seeing the sad state of his once-awesome former five meters. Even if they thought he was a new nation.

Russia smiled at him when he emerged from the bathroom. "Now we should find you clothes, yes? Then you can shower and we can eat."

The prospect of food appealed much more than anything else, but Prussia didn't argue. He'd need clothes that actually fit and hadn't been looted off some poor bastard who didn't survive the war. While he doubted Russia would have anything that fitted him properly, he likely had something that came close enough, since Russia _did_ have a lot of other nations living with him.

Latvia wasn't that much taller than Prussia's child body, if he remembered right, and some of the SSRs were rather young, especially the 'stans since they'd been more or less nomadic peoples for most of their history. They might be ancient, but they looked – and often acted – like teens.

The thought was worrisome: how much would this stupid undersized _weak_ body affect him? He'd already caught himself doing and thinking things he'd never have done normally. If he stayed like this for a long time, would he stop being awesome altogether?

It was a terrifying prospect, one he shoved aside as fast as he could distract himself.

Fortunately by then Russia had led him to a large storage room – which looked to Prussia like a former guest room that had been stripped of furnishings and piled with crates and boxes – and started digging through the stacked crates. Without any heat, the room was bitterly cold: Prussia took the opportunity offered by one of Russia's old coats to wrap himself in the heavy coat, sitting down so he could tuck his bare feet inside the coat and try to warm up again.

Hopefully it wouldn't take Russia long to find clothes that would fit him.


	6. Chapter 6

Prussia didn't pay much attention to the other nations sharing the huge dining table: his body wanted food, and wasn't going to let him do anything else until it was satisfied. Which meant that the Bavarian-style sausage and the dark rye bread vanished from his plate faster than an Italian division in full retreat.

Stifled giggles as he invaded the piled pancakes finally made him look up, complete with a mouth full of food. "What?" Of course, he spoke German. He wasn't sure if he was supposed to know Russian or not, but he wasn't going to show that he did when Russia himself had spoken to him exclusively in German.

"East, not with your mouth full," Russia said with a sigh – in German. "Have you never had a proper meal before?"

Not since he'd come back to this child's body, he hadn't, so Prussia shook his head. "'m hungry."

"You can have more later, little one," Russia reminded him. He turned to someone on his right. "Lithuania, please make sure there is something East can eat whenever he is hungry," he said in Russian. "From the look of him it will be some time before he can last between meals, yes."

Lithuania's voice, calm, "Of course, Mr Russia."

Prussia kept eating, doing his best not to let anything show on his face. Right now the food was more interesting anyway – something he recognized as being a child-self thing, and dangerous as well. He couldn't stop himself.

Another giggle, higher pitched. Prussia turned in that direction, intending to glare, but found himself caught by a too-familiar pair of green eyes. Hungary. _Shit_.

Of all the nations Hungary knew him best, and was the most likely to recognize Prussia in the child's body of East. She looked thinner than he remembered last seeing her, and tired.

Misdirection first. It was safer than outright lies. "You're pretty."

The calculating look faded, and Hungary smiled a little. "Is that so, 'East Germany'?" He could hear the suspicion in her voice, the skepticism.

_Shit, shit, shit... she suspects..._ Prussia nodded. "You have pretty hair," he explained. "Why aren't you wearing a dress?" That was something his old self would _never_ say – or even think too loudly. It might be enough...

Hungary narrowed her eyes at him. "And why should I wear a dress?" she asked in a voice that even America would recognize was dangerous.

"Because pretty ladies wear dresses." With his red eyes the lost puppy look was guaranteed to be a failure, but he tried. "You're too pretty to dress like a man."

Russia's soft, rolling laughter stopped any further conversation. "East is quite right, Hungary," he said. "You should not hide your beauty, yes."

She flushed and looked away, her glare promising death – but not to Prussia. It was Russia she wanted to kill, not him.

He hoped his relief wasn't too obvious.


	7. Chapter 7

It didn't take long for Prussia to become familiar with the routines of Russia's house, and nobody seemed to think it odd that he only needed a month or so to "learn" enough Russian to be able to manage most of his interactions with the others in that language. Presumably being a Russian client-state made learning the master state's language much easier: he'd needed a lot more than that to learn Russian the first time around.

If not for the danger of someone realizing who he was – and with Hungary and Poland both living in Russia's house it was a very real danger – he could have really enjoyed it. He had to keep reminding himself he wasn't supposed to like Russia's habit of pulling him into hugs whenever he did something the bigger avatar thought was cute.

Prussia couldn't see where the cute was. He supposed it was a Russia thing.

He wasn't supposed to like Estonia ruffling his hair and sneaking him sweets, or Bulgaria and Romania teaching him their folk songs, or helping Lithuania and Latvia in the kitchen, or his lessons in Russian with Moldova – who looked even younger than Prussia did, despite being much older than East was. He _certainly_ wasn't supposed to like Russia helping him and Moldova with their roles in their respective nations.

He was the awesome Prussia, not this weak little child who melted when Russia hugged him! That traitorous voice his head telling him he could be both could shut up.

Only he knew the next time Russia embraced him, he'd hug back and do the whole sappy chirpy thing because his child-self would take over again.

It was probably a good thing that he didn't have much free time. Russia made sure all his territories and client states had plenty of chores – Prussia's duties included setting the table and clearing it after meals, as well as some of the lighter cleaning – and he checked their administrative work before he let their bosses see it. Not that Prussia minded that, really. It meant his boss wasn't really his boss and he didn't have to care too much about what the man did, because when it came to it, _Russia_ was his boss, and his sort-of big brother.

He knew Hungary and Poland resented that, since they'd been independent and powerful before the war, but even though he knew he should resent it too, he couldn't. Another child-self thing that probably went right along with the way his memories of being Prussia were fading too fast to be natural.

That scared him more than anything else, that he could forget his awesome self and get stuck permanently in this weak body that wouldn't survive past reunification with his brother. Which was why he tried to stay busy enough that he didn't have the time to think about that. And why when he wasn't busy with chores or his duties as a nation he sought out activities where he was in control, trying, with limited success, to recapture what it felt like to be Prussia, to be powerful and in charge.

The fact that riding the heavy sled – he'd found it in one of Russia's outbuildings – down the hill behind the house was awesome fun was just a coincidence. Or so Prussia told himself as he dragged the sled back up the hill for another turn.

"Can I ride too?" Moldova called from behind him.

"That would be great!" Prussia shouted back.

It was, too. Moldova added just enough extra weight that the sled skidded down the snow-covered hill much faster, and if he could turn the sled at just the right time at the bottom of the hill the skidding sled sent up a completely awesome wave of snow that broke into spatters of snow on the wall that run from the east wing to the west, enclosing a sheltered courtyard where he and Moldova weren't allowed to play because Latvia and Bulgaria grew herbs and vegetables there.

Not that there was anything but snow in the courtyard now.

By the third run, Prussia had it timed to where he could make the snow wave break over the top of the wall, to Moldova's delight. Hauling the sled back up the hill was easier with Moldova helping, too.

The fifth run was when it all went wrong: they were at top speed and Prussia was ready to haul the sled sideways to make the next wave when the iron gate opened and Poland stepped out right where the sled would go if he turned it.

Prussia didn't even think about what to do next: one moment he was gripping the sled, the next he'd thrown himself and Moldova off it. He heard a splintering crack and a shout, then he was on his back in snow that wasn't quite as deep as he'd thought and in a twist that was completely not awesome was stuffed with rocks. It hurt. He hoped Moldova had landed in a soft bit.

"East!" Poland's shout lanced through his head. "Moldova!"

Prussia couldn't manage more than a groan. He heard Moldova whimper. "I want big brother," although that could mean Romania or Russia.

He'd just lie here until he stopped seeing stars, he decided. It was a lot easier than trying to move.

The sound of the door, multiple times, then the oddly subdued stampede that was lots of boots on snow. Russia's voice, a low angry growl. "What happened?"

"I don't know!" Poland yelped. "I opened the gate to call them back inside, and, like, there was a blur and snow and stuff, like everywhere."

Romania murmured something in his language, then he said, "Moldova isn't hurt, Mr Russia. He's just a bit shocked."

That was nice, Prussia thought. He'd done that much right.

"Where is East?" That demand was – if that was even possible – more angry.

"'mhere," Prussia managed to croak. How hard had he hit those rocks hiding under the snow?

Russia groaned. "Why did I get you a _white_ winter coat?"

He couldn't stifle a cry of pain when Russia lifted him.

Romania spoke again. "Mr Russia? East Germany pushed himself and Moldova off the sled before it could hit the wall. Moldova thinks it was so they didn't run into Poland."

"Sled?" Russia's deep voice rumbled through Prussia's body. "You mean the mess of firewood against the wall?"

Moldova spoke up. "It was a sled, big brother Russia. We were making snow waves."

Prussia let it all drift past him. He wasn't hurt _too_ much, but he didn't want to move just yet. He'd rattled his head enough to be dizzy and a bit sickish, so staying still was the smart thing to do.

Russia carried him inside and set him down on something soft, grumbling about how of all the places where snow was piled a meter deep or more, East Germany had to land where the stones for repairs to the wall were piled.

That was probably easier to deal with than trying to make sense of his reactions. He was supposed to be Prussia, the army with a nation, the one who didn't have friends and who didn't trust anyone, ever – with the exception of his brother, and look where _that_ got him.

He should have abandoned the sled and got himself to safety, not tried to spare Moldova or Poland.


	8. Chapter 8

After the sled incident – which demonstrated that if it hit hard enough a stone wall could reduce an old, dry sled to firewood – Prussia and Moldova were forbidden to play outside unless one of the older nations was supervising. Apparently older, anyway.

Not that Prussia cared all that much, he told himself. There'd only been one sled, and Russia wasn't going to let him or Moldova chop down trees or use the wood set aside for firewood and house repairs to make another.

Making snowballs and rolling them down the hill wasn't nearly as much fun, and that was stopped too, after Latvia opened the gate at the wrong time and got bowled over by the big one that hadn't gone the direction Prussia wanted.

The spanking he got for that effort convinced him that snow missiles were a bad idea in general. It wasn't _fair_!

He cut the thought off, hard. Fair was something for children. He couldn't let himself get trapped as a child. It didn't matter that he looked like a child, that everyone thought he was a child. _He_ knew better.

He sighed under his breath and shifted in his seat. The trousers of child-sized suit he'd been told to wear were prickly and uncomfortable, and the shirt was starched so stiff it scratched his neck and arms. Russia was driving him to some meeting in Switzerland, something to do with East Germany and Germany and what was supposed to happen next.

Russia hadn't said much more than that except to remind Prussia how important it was that he impress England, France, and America. Not that Prussia needed reminding: if any of those three realized that he wasn't a new nation they'd kill him again, and he might not come back this time.

He still couldn't feel his people or his land properly, and he knew why. He'd thought at first it was the dissolution, but it wasn't, not really. It was the damned Preussenschlag. Between that and the war, his people had been half-way to seeing themselves as Germans anyway, and now, forced apart from their relatives in the western part of Germany, they wanted to be just German. Not East German, not Prussian. _German_.

His own people didn't want him.

He didn't know what he wanted, except that it wasn't this stupid half-life. He didn't want to die, especially not after failing everyone so badly... He'd _raised_ Germany, taught his brother everything there was to know about being a nation. So when Germany had been caught up in the madness of that wretched creature with the toothbrush mustache, well that was Prussia's fault too, for not teaching his brother how to identify a crazy boss, how to protect himself from one.

He stared out the window, watching fields and trees roll by. There was something hypnotic about it, something that encouraged him to let go of his thoughts and just watch.

But the thoughts didn't want to leave, not with the prospect of being in the same room as his brother so close. The prospect of being in the same room as his tormentors and killers, too.

He wasn't sure which he feared more.


	9. Chapter 9

The headache started in the long, anonymous corridors of whichever one of the United Nations buildings was hosting the meeting. Prussia didn't know or care – the United Nations seemed to him as stupid and useless an idea as the League of Nations before it had been – except that Russia was irritated the meeting hadn't been held in Berlin as he'd wanted.

With his head throbbing as though something was trying to pull his brains out through his eyes, Prussia wasn't in any mood to appreciate anything about this. He squinted against light that was suddenly too bright for his eyes and trailed obediently in Russia's wake, for once comforted by the firm grip of Russia's hand around his.

Finally, Russia stopped at a closed door. Prussia could hear the sound of an argument beyond.

Well... a little more than an argument. It sounded like England was ready to kill someone.

Prussia found himself edging closer to Russia.

"Courage, little one," Russia murmured. "I will not let them harm you."

Prussia swallowed and nodded. Between the way his head hurt and what sounded like a small war in that room, the child body's responses were in charge.

The explosion of shouting when Russia opened the door made Prussia cringe. He'd forgotten just _how_ loud America and England could be. France was no slouch either.

It took him a moment to realize that his brother wasn't taking part in the argument: Germany sat at the polished wood table with his head in his arms. He looked thinner than Prussia remembered.

The other three were on their feet, shouting at each other over... where Germany's capital should be? _Really_?

Prussia supposed that with Berlin divided and the western part surrounded by East German lands, Germany's capital couldn't be there, so each of the three western occupiers wanted it in their section. Controlling the capital meant having the most influence over Germany as the nation rebuilt.

Germany looked up, and his eyes opened wide as he stared at Prussia. He looked haggard, haunted. "No." Though not loud, his voice cut through the argument. "Keep him away from me." His voice shook and he pushed his chair back. "Don't let me touch him: I'll destroy _him_ too."

Prussia couldn't help himself: he took a half-step closer even as he realized what was happening. His people, Germany's people, they _wanted_ to be one nation, and if he touched Germany he'd be absorbed into the stronger nation. He didn't have the strength to stay apart.

That was why his head was hurting so much: it was his body trying to unite with Germany. Right now, only a touch would be needed. He'd already been unified once – even with the link weakened by his death and the dissolution, it was still there.

Germany's voice rose to a panicked shout. "Keep him away!"

Russia pulled Prussia close, wrapping him in a comforting embrace. That helped, somehow, the Russian's presence helping to block the need to unify, the pounding headache. Russia's choice of seat as far from Germany as the room permitted also helped, as did him positioning Prussia to sit on his lap with his head resting against the big nation's shoulder.

"...the _fuck_, dude. He's just a kid." America sounded bewildered.

If the smack was any guide, England had hit the back of America's head. "Watch your language around the boy."

At least they were speaking German – albeit with horrible accents. Prussia doubted he'd be able to pretend he couldn't understand English or French.

"The young one would be East Germany, no?" France wasn't really asking.

Prussia felt Russia's nod.

France sighed. "So, his lands are those that were Prussia's – but those lands were _Germany's_ for ten years, America."

Prussia could almost see the elegant movements that France had made second nature when he said, "The people there, they wish to be German. They do not wish to be a separate nation."

"It would destroy him." Germany spoke in a harsh, raw voice. "I... I can't do that to anyone else."

"That never stopped you before," England snapped.

Prussia felt his brother flinch, felt the grief and self-loathing he couldn't hold back anymore.

"He... that _human_... controlled me..." Germany said in a ragged voice. "I wasn't... I _couldn't_ think for myself, not once... And I took my... took Prussia, and raped him and tortured him and _made_ him one with me..." His voice broke: he gave a shuddering sob, then said, "When I came back... it was too late. You never let me see him... I couldn't even _apologize_ to him..."

The silence that followed was broken only by Germany's broken sobs.

Prussia pressed his head against Russia's shoulder and tried not to shiver. He couldn't help crying, too: so much grief, so much pain, and it was all his fault. Russia stroked his hair gently, soothing.

France swallowed. "Come, Germany. I do not think after this anyone will try to pursue a one-state solution."

Prussia could almost feel the Frenchman's glare.

"Whatever else has happened, the child is an innocent." There was sympathy in his voice, something Prussia hadn't expected. "And you are very young as well."

Movement, the sound of a chair pushed back. France continued speaking. "None of us can escape this when our people lose their way. For one as young as you, as strong as you, it is much harder to recover." His voice faded as he and Germany left, Prussia's headache easing with distance from his brother.

Another long quiet, then England said in a subdued voice. "The Frog's right. East Germany deserves his chance, even if it _is_ with _you_." That last word was filled with venom and aimed at Russia.

"Yeah. It would be totally unheroic to destroy him." America of course. A moment later, America added, "He sure looks a lot like a little Prussia, doesn't he?"

Prussia clutched Russia a little tighter. If they realized...


	10. Chapter 10

Prussia actually welcomed France's return, not least because it stopped America cooing at him and trying to get him to look at the young superpower. His headache was fading, but that didn't mean he wanted to open his eyes, especially not with England agreeing that he looked like... well, himself.

His red eyes would doom him.

Russia prevented any discussion of who Prussia looked like by asking, "How is Germany?"

"He is sleeping," France said calmly. "The pills helped."

Prussia could almost feel Russia's eyebrows rise. "You drugged him?"

He heard France's shrug. "It was necessary. He does not sleep without them."

Proof – if Prussia had needed it – that his brother was too young to be in this position, too young to shoulder the blame for the madness that had swept his nation. That Prussia had pushed him too fast, let him grow too quickly. The same mistake he and Austria made with Holy Rome, each of them pushing the boy to grow, to become an empire in truth, each for their own reasons.

"What will you do with him?" Russia asked.

America answered. "Look after him." He sounded offended that any other choice would have been considered. "Help him rebuild, but properly, without all that other shit."

Without Prussia.

Who was, in this weak body, more of a hindrance than an asset anyway, not to mention quite firmly in Russia's possession. His child-self didn't mind that, but it wasn't exactly a recipe for regaining his strength, especially when his people didn't want him.

"That is good." Russia said. "My boss wants unification, but not so much that he will force me to that goal."

Prussia could tell from the tone that Russia wasn't trying to hide anything.

"I do not want East to be harmed."

"So, two Germanies then." England wasn't asking. "Your part becomes East Germany with whatever official name you want to give it. The rest becomes West Germany."

Russia nodded. "That is acceptable. You will see that your bosses understand, yes?"

England snorted. "Considering the terms yours wanted for a unified Germany, I don't think any of ours will argue much."

Russia's soft laughter vibrated through Prussia's body. "That is why those terms are there, yes."

America sounded as though he wanted something to be angry at. "Much as I hate to agree with you, two Germanies is the best choice for now." The unsaid _Don't try anything_ practically echoed.

"Agreed." France didn't waste words. "Shall we adjourn, then?"

"Not yet," America said before anyone else could get a word in. "We should be introduced to East Germany properly."

Prussia couldn't help hoping that Russia would refuse, even though he knew that wasn't likely.

"Of course." Russia smoothed his hair. "Come, East. You must meet England, France, and America properly. The memories you share with Prussia don't count here."

"The _what_?" America demanded.

France answered. "East has Prussia's old lands, or some of them, America. It's not uncommon for the new nation to have some of the old one's memories." His voice darkened a little. "I gather East Germany remembers Prussia's execution?"

"Yes." That was all Russia said. He gently set Prussia on his feet. "East, this is America, England, and France." He pointed to each nation in turn. "They will not harm you. You can shake hands with them."

Prussia didn't have to fake reluctance as he cautiously shook first America's hand, then England's, and finally, France's. He couldn't stop himself backing away until Russia's comforting bulk was against his back.

"Good lord, he _does_ look like a little Prussia." England shook his head. "The resemblance is remarkable." He turned to America to ask – in English – "Are you _certain_ Prussia is gone?"

America shrugged, and answered in German. "Dude, the clothes hadn't moved from when Germany and me laid him out. Even the cross was there. And then there was this on the ground." He tossed a half-melted, deformed mass of lead on the table. "You used a lot of bullets, dude."

Prussia shuddered. Knowing England had shot him more than a dozen times didn't compare to seeing that mass of metal that had fallen from his body when he'd woken. He hadn't even noticed.

France knelt in front of him. "Child. You are innocent of all this. Just because you look like Prussia does not make you him. You don't need to be so frightened."

Part of him – the Prussia part – wanted to protest that he wasn't scared, but at the same time, being scared helped to convince them that he _was_ someone else, was the child East Germany and not Prussia who nobody wanted and nobody missed.

France winked. "Ignore England. He's just irritated because he didn't get his way this time."

"Do you _mind_, Frog?" England demanded in a sour tone.

France smiled, his blue eyes filled with amusement. "Of course not, England. Do you think I would do this if I did?"

Things degenerated after that, allowing Russia to lead Prussia away, the big nation chuckling softly. He waited until they were in the car before he said, "Well, that went well. Remember, little one, the right truth told at the right time can work more in your favor than all the lies in the world."

"Yes, Russia," Prussia mumbled, sleepy now that he was safely away from the Allies – and when had Russia stopped being one of the Allies and started being his protector? Surely that wasn't right. "Can we get something to eat, please?"


	11. Chapter 11

Prussia wanted to shiver despite the warmth of early June. All his instincts – child-self and adult-self for once in unison – screamed at him to get out of the House of Ministries as angry, chanting people filled the entrance plaza and flowed into the streets beyond. Only Russia's presence beside him kept him there.

These might be his people, but they didn't want him, they didn't want the Communist bosses and they _really_ didn't want their Soviet masters dictating every action and every policy. They were going to suffer for their courage here – he could see it in Russia's thunderous expression, hear it in the curt orders he was giving the unfortunate whose office Russia had commandeered. Orders to have the Soviet Army move their lazy arses and deal with these ingrates.

That he would use such language in front of Prussia showed how angry he was.

Shouts and the smashing of glass was followed by cheers: the protesters had overpowered the police and the Stasi men and forced their way into the building.

The unfortunate bureaucrat with the view Russia wanted stammered that the transports and tanks would arrive within minutes. He turned white when Russia ordered him to call Ambassador Semyonov at the Soviet High Commission.

When tanks rumbled into view, Prussia couldn't stand it any more. Russia was in the middle of an argument with the Ambassador, and the bureaucrat just cowered at his desk, unable to summon anything resembling sense. His people were going to die.

Even if they didn't want him, he had to do what he could to save them.

He darted from the office while Russia was looking the other way, racing through hallways filled with confused functionaries until he found the stairs – damn it, he'd known the building inside out when it had been the RLM headquarters and the Communists hadn't changed it _that_ much – pelted down them as fast as he could.

Along the way he discarded the miniature military coat and cap. His trousers weren't too obviously uniform, and his shirt was just a shirt. The coat and cap would mark him as part of the hated authorities, and he couldn't help anyone like that.

The ear-shattering roar told him at least one of the tanks had opened fire, and the screams that the Soviet bastards hadn't bothered with a warning shot.

Prussia eeled through the now panicked crowds, looking for a way – _any_ way – to save people.

Someone swept him up, pulling him away from the street, from the fleeing and dead. "You're brave, son, but you can't fight the fucking Red Army by yourself." He could hear bitterness and defeat in the man's voice.

Prussia turned to look at him, saw a young man, maybe twenty-five at most, thinner than he should be, sandy-blond hair spattered with blood and a wild look in his gray eyes. "I can help get some of the injured out of the way."

The man swallowed. "Then what? The Stasi hunt them down and that's the end of it?"

Prussia had to look up to glare at him. "No. Cross the border with them. Use the sewers: I know the way, but I can't cross. It would kill me."

A small crowd of protesters gathered around him as he spoke, drawn by the presence of their nation.

"Who..." The man shook his head. "_What_ are you?"

Prussia smiled bitterly, knowing it looked odd on his childish face. "I'm the biggest state secret in the whole miserable country," he said. "I'm the personification of East Germany."

Another round of shots, and more screams.

Prussia shuddered at the wave of pain from the newly injured. "Come on. We can't get them all, but get who we can and I'll show you the way."

Miracle of miracles, they listened. Perhaps he could do some good before Russia caught up with him.


	12. Chapter 12

Bosses could come and go, and even political philosophies – who seriously believed in the divine right of kings these days? - but sewers were eternal, Prussia decided as he dropped down to land with a rather too solid splash. Above and behind him, one of the able-bodied folk – he'd gathered a collection of followers as he darted from cover to grab one of the injured and haul them out of harm's way, then back again, and again until they heard transports rounding back for the cleanup while the tanks continued "dispersing" protesters in the rest of the city – hauled the grating back into place before climbing down the access ladder.

They'd retrieved maybe a dozen wounded, none so badly hurt they wouldn't survive a rough trip. It was battlefield triage after a loss all over again, scrambling to collect as many of the fallen as you could before the enemy closed in on you and you had to run.

Prussia hated it. He always had, and always would. Leaving his people to die left him wanting to throw up.

The smell didn't help. It had weight. _Body_. If people lived down here, the smell would probably acquire its own personification it was that solid. Proof the Communists were a disaster – Prussia was convinced you could tell the strength of a society by its plumbing. Well-maintained sewers that didn't reek any more than necessary were the sign of a technologically advanced nation that had its priorities right.

Maybe it was just a personal thing: he'd had to hide in enough drains during his life, and he'd spent enough time in Berlin's drain and sewer systems to know them very well indeed. Jew-hunting – only _he_ was trying to get to them before the Nazis so he could help them get to safety. Ghost, they'd called him.

The group had finished reorganizing so the strongest of the men supported the wounded.

Prussia nodded. "Follow," he said softly. The rumbling of tanks and transports above would mask some of the sounds they made, but not all of them.

Despite everything, Prussia found himself grinning fiercely. For the first time since he'd awakened in this child's body he felt _alive_. Vital. Needed. He might be too weak for an open fight, unable to risk setting foot on West German soil, but by all that was holy he was still _Prussia_ and he'd fight the Soviets every way he could, even if it meant draining his nation of people.

If it killed him, well, he'd be doing something worthy of his old training for once. A knight protected the helpless, guarded the defenseless. His old vows said as much, along with the usual poverty – technically he hadn't broken that one since everything he'd ever had was from his nation and belonged to his nation – and chastity shtick.

They met others down there, hiding from the reprisals and tending wounded. The little group swelled to more than fifty-strong, all of them following Prussia without question though he could hear the whispered explanations passing through the dim tunnels.

After centuries of hiding, never letting more than a handful of carefully chosen humans – aside from his bosses, of course – know what he was, the openness felt strange, good. He wasn't even sure why his kind had started hiding what they were.

He knew when he reached the border: he could feel the terrible attraction of his brother's land just beyond. Down here, of course, there was nothing obvious to show where the border lay, but Prussia knew. He couldn't _not_ know.

"Just up there." Prussia whispered. "Keep going straight ahead about two hundred meters. That should put you far enough to be safely on the West side – and out of sniper range." Or at least, out of range of a clear shot. He could feel in his bones that rebuilding had been and still was intense on the Western side of Berlin. "Good luck." If all went well, these people wouldn't be _his_ anymore. But they would be safe.

One of the women cleared her throat. "Is there... is there anything we can do for you?"

Prussia shrugged in the dimness. "There's one thing," he said. "Tell someone there you've got a message from me to Germany." He closed his eyes and didn't even bother telling himself that it was the acrid fumes that made his eyes burn. "When you get to see him – and for this, they'll let you see him – tell him Gilbert sent you."

"That's your real name?" He didn't see who asked, but he felt the man, one of the protesters, shot in the left thigh and limping but more or less able to walk.

"No, my real name is East Germany. Gilbert Beilschmidt is supposed to be a secret name." He grinned. "But I get to decide who I tell the secret to."

The humans were confused, but willing to accept what he said.

"Go on." He made a shooing gesture. "The longer you wait here the more likely the Soviets will start hunting." There'd been enough Nazi expeditions through the sewers.

The first man, the one who'd carried him from the crowd, asked softly, "What will you do, sir?"

It felt really wrong, this child body getting titles from an adult. Prussia ignored that. "Whatever I can. Probably it won't be much especially once Russia gets me back." He shoved the prospect of Russia's basement – something he'd heard the others whisper about when they thought he couldn't hear them – as far to the back of his mind as he could get it. Terrible things happened in Russia's basement, and Prussia had seen more than enough terrible things – and done enough of them himself, not to mention had them done to him – to want no part of it. He certainly didn't need to scare himself stupid over it unless it happened to him.

"Can't we... protect you?"

Prussia smiled. Not the smirk he'd been known for as an adult, but a rather sad, wistful expression. "Not against him. Russia would kill you without a second thought." There was a good chance Russia wouldn't wait long enough to have a _first_ thought. "Besides, if you do this right, you won't be my people any more. You'll be Germany's."

The first man went down on one knee, making Prussia's face burn with embarrassment. People didn't bow for him. "No. I'll be yours. And I'll keep doing this until our people are free."

Prussia couldn't help it. He swallowed, then embraced the man – the first time since Old Fritz he'd embraced a human other than to comfort them. "You're awesome."


	13. Chapter 13

By sunset, Prussia ached with weariness, but he was – mostly – grinning fit to break his face. He wasn't quite certain how a 'message from Gilbert' had become part of the rapidly budding East German resistance, but there it was. Instead of being the symbol of the – deservedly – hated Communist bosses, he'd become the mascot of their opponents.

And several inches taller, he thought. The shirt that had been a good fit this morning now had too-short sleeves and strained at the shoulders. Even though the dirt and... well, other dirt of the drains made it hard to tell, he thought the gap between his trousers and his too-tight shoes exposed several inches of ankle.

He'd _never_ in all his years fighting found himself in a situation like this. Usually he was with the bosses, doing their bidding – and mostly he'd enjoyed that. Now he was against the bosses even though they'd make his life hell once they caught him – and Prussia knew very well that he would be caught, sooner or later.

Russia was probably searching for him, personally.

That didn't matter, he reminded himself. What mattered was saving anyone that could be saved from the vengeance the Russian soldiers were wreaking on his people. He'd heard reports of officers in the fledgling East German army shooting any of theirs who refused to fire on fleeing civilians, and he could feel each one as a stab of pain in his back, a betrayal of the age old compact between a nation's people and its army.

He'd feel worse, when the Stasi started 'interrogating' those who'd survived to be arrested. Too many of those were former Gestapo who'd happily moved to the new bosses so they could indulge their questionable tastes. It always happened that way: overthrow a bad boss, and the bully-boys would find themselves a comfortable niche where they could keep up their unsavory habits.

Not that there was anything Prussia could do for the victims of those charming specimens. It was hard to say whether they'd be better with Stasi's Soviet counterparts, whatever name they were calling themselves now.

He could worry about that later, he reminded himself. Now there were people who needed him.

He let the closest and most urgent need draw him, climbed from the drains to a narrow alley between brick buildings that he thought had once been offices and should have been torn down after the war. From the smell and feel of the place, people with nowhere else to go had converted them into tenements of a sort.

Instead of the crowd that should have been filling the alley in this makeshift ghetto, there was the kind of silence that spoke of people holding their breath, waiting for the danger to pass.

Prussia slipped through the shadows, following his senses. It was too quiet: either he'd got somewhere the demonstrations hadn't touched – which was unlikely – or he was in an area that had already been pacified and cleaned up.

He got his answer soon enough, in the form of a dark stain whose true color was masked by the shadows. So what had called him here?

Too late, he remembered that his being a client-state meant that Russia could summon him and he'd be pulled to the man, just like he was to his people when they needed him. That the summons was, like the need of his people, nothing more than a sense he should be somewhere.

He wasn't sure what warned him, but he dropped to the ground in time that the shots thundering in the quiet street didn't hit him. He scrambled for the nearest building, hearing Russia bellowing curses at someone and a meaty thud that meant he'd hit whoever had irritated him.

Prussia couldn't help hoping it wasn't one of his people. Then he realized it couldn't be: Russia had hidden them from him so he'd walk into this little ambush. They had to be Russia's. Which meant the big nation might have just killed one of his own...

By the time Prussia had climbed to his feet, he wasn't alone in the too-quiet street anymore: men in the Russian army uniform stood with rifles aimed at him, blocking any escape he might try to make. He swallowed, and stayed where he was, not moving. They'd already shot at him once.

About the only thing keeping him from panic was Russia's furious tirade about them nearly killing him, and the protectiveness of it. That meant Russia was more angry at the soldiers than at Prussia. Which still wasn't good, but it was better than Russia wanting to kill _him_.

Russia strode through the watching soldiers, his anger so intense it was almost visible around him, a dark cloud like an ice storm wrapping around his body.

"German Democratic Republic." Every word snapped out with a vicious bite.

Prussia swallowed, and hung his head. He couldn't do the lost puppy thing but maybe if he looked pathetic enough he'd get sympathy. Or at least credit for remorse, or something. He didn't have to pretend to be scared.

"Do not _ever_ do that again," Russia growled. "You do not simply vanish and spend the entire _day_ doing who knows what, putting yourself in danger _and_ humiliating me in front of Ambassador Semyonov."

Prussia looked up, not quite sure he believed that Russia had no idea what he'd been doing all day. He shuddered at Russia's expression and looked down again. "I'm sorry, Russia," he said in a shaky voice. He wasn't all that sure what he was sorry for, but he was definitely sorry.

"Follow." Russia wasn't allowing for any argument with that order. "I will deal with you when we are home."


	14. Chapter 14

The long drive back to Moscow was possibly the most uncomfortable journey Prussia had ever taken – at least if he kept the times he'd been hauled from place to place as a prisoner out of the list. The sandwich and fassbrause Russia gave him weren't enough to keep hunger or thirst at bay, and even with the way nations could bend space around them and their vehicles to arrive at their destination within a reasonable time, it was a _long_ journey.

Long enough that despite the prickly discomfort of dried mud and... mud, despite his fear of what would happen when they were back in Russia's home, even despite the erratic stabbing pain that came when more of his people were killed by the joint East German and Soviet forces "restoring peace", Prussia found himself dozing as the car drove through the night.

He could have done without the nightmares jolting him awake. Russia's stony silence when he couldn't stop himself crying out made him shrink even further into his seat and try to stay awake so he didn't upset the big nation even more.

The car stopping jolted him awake. Prussia blinked at the way Russia's house seemed to loom over the car.

"You are awake, East?" Russia's rumbling question seemed calm enough, but it was a surface calm, barely hiding the still seething rage beneath it.

"Yes, Russia." Prussia hurried to get himself out of the car. By the time he closed the door, Russia was beside him, taking his right hand to lead him inside.

He followed without protest, head down. Even though he'd do everything the same given a second chance, he didn't want to think about what was going to happen now.

It seemed like the whole household was gathered waiting in the big entry hall of the house. Prussia squinted against the light, his eyes watering.

"Not a word," Russia growled. "German Democratic Republic, bathe, then to my office. No dawdling."

Prussia squeaked a reply, and ran for the stairs. He wasn't quite fast enough to escaped the worried, frightened looks from all of Russia's dependents, even Hungary and Poland.

Showering took longer than he would have liked: he hadn't been rolling in it, how had he got so much mud in his _hair_? It must be like the sewer smell he'd mostly stopped noticing and just creep into everything.

The clean pajamas he pulled on were a little too big for him even with the inches he'd gained during the too-long day, and more to the point, Prussia knew Russia thought he looked cute in them. Right now anything that would soften Russia's anger was important.

It wasn't that Prussia had any hope of escaping without punishment: he'd done what he had to do, and he hoped he could face the consequences without disgracing himself. It was just... if Russia wasn't quite so angry, there was less chance Prussia would have to recover from mortal wounds.

Aside from anything else, he wasn't all that sure he'd come back.

Once he'd combed his hair and brushed his teeth, Prussia pulled on socks and padded to Russia's office, a large room on the lower level of the rambling old palace. He knocked timidly.

"Enter." Russia's voice could have frozen the Spree in midsummer.

Prussia shivered and opened the door, closing it behind him once he was in the office.

"Come here."

While he'd never been a coward, Prussia had always been better at spur-of-the-moment things, where he just jumped in and _did_ something without thinking of the danger beforehand. Facing something he knew was going to be unpleasant at best and most likely the kind of horrible he did his best to forget made his stomach knot and his heart beat too fast in his chest, and that was when he was trying to be calm.

At least his legs didn't give out under him in the eternity it took to walk half a dozen paces to Russia's desk.

Russia sank into his chair, a battered old wooden chair that had seen more years than Prussia wanted to think about and had probably been rebuilt in bits and pieces several times over. His hands were cold when he took Prussia's hands. "I want you to listen carefully, East." That was too calm, and Prussia couldn't tell what was under it.

"Comrade Malenkov has ordered me to punish you for your misdeeds," Russia said in that too-pleasant voice. "He has also informed me that I am to introduce you to the basement."

Prussia couldn't stop a whimper escaping.

"You are fortunate he did not think to specify _how_ you were to be punished," Russia added in a somewhat softer tone. "Comrade Stalin would have told me exactly what to do with you, and had me film the procedure and send him the footage, yes."

He hadn't expected _that_. Prussia stared at the bigger nation with his eyes so wide open they hurt.

"So, little one, do you know why you are being punished?"

Prussia swallowed. "I... I ran off... and didn't come back." His voice wasn't steady.

Russia gave a slow nod. "And?"

He flushed. "You... you said something about the Ambassador? But I didn't know I was supposed to meet him!"

The soft chuckle wasn't exactly sympathetic. "Would that have stopped you?"

Prussia's flinched back, but Russia's grip was too strong to break. "They were hurting and scared," he blurted out. "I couldn't _help_ it, I had to do something!"

Russia pulled him closer, into a hug. "Shh, East, I know. I wasn't allowed to tell you the reason for the journey, and I tried to convince Comrade Malenkov that you would do... what you did, yes."

Prussia swallowed and clung a little closer.

"You are too young for this, East." Russia murmured. "And yet..."

"We don't get a say, do we?" Prussia said bitterly. "The boss wants, the boss gets."

Russia smoothed his damp hair. "So wise, little one." He sighed. "Now, we should get this over with, yes?"


	15. Chapter 15

Prussia supposed he should be relieved that his punishment was only getting spanked until he was quite sure he wouldn't be sitting down for the next few days. It hurt enough that he had to clench his teeth so he wasn't sobbing, and when Russia set him on his feet his legs trembled under him, but he knew with absolute certainty that it could have been much, much worse.

He clenched his hands into his pajama pants to keep himself from rubbing his stinging backside: if he did rub the tender skin, he'd only make it hurt worse.

Russia took a handkerchief from his coat pocket and wiped Prussia's eyes with it. "Blow your nose, East."

He took the cloth with a shaky hand, and blew.

Russia waved a hand when he made to give the handkerchief back. "Keep it. You can put it in the laundry later."

Prussia didn't trust himself to speak, so he nodded and tucked the damp handkerchief into the sleeve of his pajamas.

Russia stood. "Now, come. It is time to introduce you to the basement, yes?"

Prussia shuddered, but he didn't resist the gentle hand resting on his shoulder. He just hoped getting spanked until he couldn't sit was enough to satisfy Russia's boss. He had a suspicion it wouldn't be.

Russia led him to a wall panel, where he touched something Prussia couldn't see. A soft click was followed by a creaking sound, and the panel swung back to reveal a dark, narrow space.

Another movement of Russia's free hand and the click of a switch, then a light shone in the space, revealing a stairwell that looked like it was built between walls. The panel hiding it hadn't looked any different than any of the other wall panels, either.

There was barely enough space in the steep stairwell for Russia: Prussia followed the big nation down the stairs, leaning against the stone wall so his shaky legs had a bit of support. He hoped he wasn't whimpering too loudly, although he was pretty sure Russia heard every sound he made.

In his lifetime as Prussia, he'd become familiar with torture – as the victim and the torturer – and hardened to it. This body, though... this child's body was too weak for that, his bond with his people and his land not sturdy enough to hold him or heal him if he was too badly hurt.

That, and what he might reveal if Russia was to... He turned his thoughts away from that. Russia hadn't _said_ he was going to do anything to him, and he was quite sure if Russia did intend to torture him, he'd tell him beforehand, to give him time to get really scared.

If Prussia was going to be honest with himself, he didn't need anything to scare him. He was already terrified.

Russia unlocked a heavy steel door at the bottom of the stairs – Prussia couldn't help wondering how it had got down there: it looked too big for the stairwell, and it was newer than the house – and pulled it open, then turned on the light in the room beyond.

Prussia's mouth went dry. His imagination... didn't come close.

He'd expected chains, and the rack, and assorted iron devices whose names – and uses – he wished he could forget. The whips, ranging from a more-or-less standard cat o' nine tails to fearsome things with sharp hooks braided into the leather, those were bad, and the dark stains on the stone floor, and... Oh, Russia was a _modern_ nation now, so the electrodes and clamps probably weren't that surprising...

It was the way it was all so neatly organized that had Prussia trembling and leaning against the cold stone wall so he didn't faint. Shelves lined with horrible things, sorted by... what they'd do to their victim, he thought. Whips hanging neatly from hooks in the wall, the least damaging nearest the door, graded and organized like a stamp collection.

Russia took a bottle of oil from one of the shelves and inspected the rack, adding a few drops of oil to one of the wheels. "It is better to maintain things, East," he said in that voice that was a thin layer of ice over a pit that led straight to hell. "If the mechanism seizes up, someone could lose a limb, yes."

Prussia bit his hand, hard. His eyes leaked tears of sheer fright. No matter _what_ the Prussia-memories said, the child-self could only look at this place as something belonging in nightmares. Something that should never have been given reality.

He stayed where he was, quivering and hardly daring to hope that Russia didn't intend to use any of his... collection on him, while Russia inspected his torture devices, checking that each was in good working order.

If he'd had any prospect of escape, Prussia would have run. But he knew he'd never be able to escape. He probably wouldn't get off Russia's grounds, much less out of the country. He wasn't sure his legs would take him to the top of those too-steep stairs.

Finally, Russia turned to look at him. "This place was built with the house." Again, that terrible calm. "My boss wished me to have somewhere I could deal with rebellious territories without their ability to heal causing... issues with superstitious guards."

Prussia tried to swallow, and couldn't. His mouth was too dry.

"That was... two, three hundred years ago, yes." Russia approached and squatted so his face was level with Prussia's. "I did not want it then, and I do not want it now," he said softly. "I use this only when my boss orders it." A slight softening of his expression, a hint of a gentle smile. "I am very glad Comrade Malenkov did not order it."

All Prussia could do was stare.

"He only ordered me to introduce you to the basement. I have done this, yes?"

Prussia was quick to nod.

"Now we shall return to my office, and this place can rest until I am forced to use it once more."

The shudders running through him weren't all fear, but they were no weaker for that. "Then... the others...?"

Russia sighed. "Comrade Stalin would require me to deliver photographs and film." He sounded terribly sad when he said that. "He did not trust me to obey him." A pause. "Do you understand what you risked, East?"

Prussia nodded again. "I'm... I'm sorry... I didn't know..."

"Shh." Russia stood and embraced him. "I fear for you, little one. So fragile and so young. Please do not risk yourself again."

He couldn't get words out: he could only cling to Russia and sob with mingled relief and fear.


	16. Chapter 16

Russia's phone was ringing by the time he and Prussia returned to the office. With a scowl that should have frozen the phone, Russia strode over to it and picked up the handset. "Soviet Union," he said curtly.

Prussia couldn't hear whoever was on the other end of the call, but he stiffened when Russia said, "It has been done, Comrade." That must be Russia's boss.

He had to cover his mouth to keep from making any sounds when Russia said, "That would not be advisable, Comrade. You _do_ know the last time Lithuania needed the basement it was two days before he could walk, yes?" The malicious amusement in Russia's expression was possibly more frightening that what he was saying. "East Germany is small and frail. Lithuania is strong."

Prussia clearly heard the indignant squawk from Russia's boss.

"I did as you ordered, Comrade. Perhaps next time I should take pictures for you, yes?" Again that malice that didn't touch his voice. "But film is so expensive, yes, so I am not taking pictures without your orders."

Prussia shuddered. His state of mind was _not_ improved by Russia's wink.

"Yes, Comrade Malenkov," Russia said in a soothing tone quite at odds with the storm in his eyes. "I did warn you, Comrade. He is a small child, and he has a small child's impulsiveness."

Another angry outburst, sounding tinny through the phone, then Russia said, "Comrade, I assure you East Germany understands his failings."

Prussia wouldn't have gone quite that far, but he was certain he didn't want to do anything that would end in him being more familiar with that basement dungeon. He supposed that amounted to the same thing.

"Once he is able, he will write a personal letter of apology to you and the Ambassador."

Prussia blinked. Once again, Russia had implied that he'd done something terrible without actually saying as much. That had never been Prussia's way – he preferred things to be open and honest. Of course, that rarely happened, but it would never have occurred to him to lie to a boss by telling him just the right set of truths.

He'd been more prone to defying his bosses and telling them where to shove their stupid notions, usually in the most explicit and offensive language he could muster. Sometimes the bosses backed down; sometimes they forced him to do what they wanted. Old Fritz, when he wasn't so wrapped up in his love of all things French his brain went to mush, would _listen_.

Fritz was gone now, long gone, and the nation he'd made great gone as well. As much as Prussia hated to admit it, he wasn't really Prussia anymore. He'd become East Germany, small, weak, lacking Prussia's fire and Prussia's eagerness to fight. East was _nicer_ than Prussia. Russia and Lithuania and Ukraine and even Belarus _liked_ East where they'd hated Prussia.

Even Prussia's memories were fading, feeling more and more like they came from somewhere else. He couldn't help wondering if this was what happened when a nation was replaced the way he had been, if the body remade itself and the memories faded until all that was left was the historical stuff and some of the strongest personal things.

He'd never really pushed with his brother, letting Germany find his own memories and tell him what he chose to say. That kid he'd found at Austerlitz, the kid who'd looked so much like Holy Rome it hurt, he'd been traumatized, in shock, and Prussia hadn't wanted to push him or hurt him. He'd wondered when the kid revealed his other name and it was the same as Holy Rome's, but he hadn't said anything. Partly misplaced pride: he'd _failed_ Holy Rome.

And now the same thing was happening to him, and all he had was Russia. Russia who was doing everything possible to protect him, even from his own foolishness.

Prussia fished the damp handkerchief from his sleeve and pressed it hard against his face. After everything Russia had told his boss, it wouldn't do for Prussia to sniffle loudly enough to be heard through the phone.

Finally, Russia set the handset on the cradle with a click, then muttered a particularly vile insult aimed at his boss. Prussia pretended not to understand that one: Russia was very careful about not swearing in front of him.

"You should go to bed, East," Russia said in a gentle voice. "It has been a long, hard day for you, yes."

Someone knocked on the office door.

"Enter."

The door swung open, revealing Lithuania with a tray holding a small samovar, two glass holders with glasses, and a small pot of brewed tea along with sugar and honey. Latvia followed him into the study, carrying a tray loaded with pirozhki and dark rye bread.

After they'd set their trays on Russia's desk, Estonia came into the study with a plate of what looked like sweet pirozhki, then Ukraine and Belarus with vodka for Russia and kvass for Prussia – who stared with wide-open eyes as Russia's other dependents, and even Hungary and Poland, crowded the hall.

Russia blinked a few times. "What... is this?"

Lithuania looked a bit embarrassed. "It's late, Mr Russia. I thought since you and East probably didn't get to eat properly today, you should have something now." He wilted a bit with Russia's continued stare, but he didn't say anything else.

Russia shook his head, smiled, and sighed. "Let us go to the dining room, yes? There are too many people for the study."

As Lithuania gathered his tray to retreat in – presumably – triumph at having ensured Russia hadn't done anything horrible to Prussia, Russia added, "And Lithuania? It is good that you wish to protect East from me, but there is no need. Unless I am ordered, I will not harm him."


	17. Chapter 17

As General Winter closed in around Moscow, Russia's kitchen became the warmest place in the house. The bosses didn't pay enough to upgrade the heating, and it didn't count to Russia's boss as an essential expense.

Prussia privately thought Russia's boss should try spending a winter here then see how essential it was, but he knew better than to say anything like that. State Security – they seemed to have settled on calling themselves the KGB now – had their cameras and microphones all over the house so nobody said anything bad in case it got to Russia's boss and he had to take someone to the basement.

The mood in the house wasn't helped by Russia having been gone a lot over the warmer months, with first Georgia's people rebelling, then Poland's, and now Hungary's. Poland still limped from whatever Russia had done to him.

Prussia froze when he saw Russia's car approach the house. The sharp knife he was using to peel potatoes trembled in his hand.

"East?" Lithuania turned to look. "Oh."

Gentle fingers pried the knife from Prussia's hand. He watched, wide-eyed, as Russia pulled a struggling Hungary from the car. She was handcuffed and looked bruised, but she fought with all the strength she had.

"East, stay -" Whatever Lithuania had been intending to tell him was lost when Poland limped into the kitchen, looking much paler than usual.

"Liet, could I, like, borrow East for a while?"

The two nations studied each other for a moment before Lithuania nodded. "Go with Poland, East. And don't go anywhere near the office."

Prussia swallowed. "I won't, Mr Lithuania." He had no desire to go anywhere near that room, particularly when an angry Russia was likely to be occupying it.

He followed Poland to his room, another barren former guest room, this one with faded red and gold wallpaper. It was also about as far as anything in the house could get from Russia's office, which was a good thing. Now all Prussia needed was something to distract him from what would be happening in that basement.

The thought of what Russia might be doing to Hungary made his stomach tie itself in knots.

Poland closed the door and stoked the fire in the fireplace, adding wood until it was burning brightly and made the room look cheerful.

While he did that, Prussia wandered over to the window and looked out over the courtyard and the barren hill that would likely be covered in snow within a month. The courtyard garden was mostly dead or dying with everything harvested and stored in the cellars.

Poland hummed something softly: a tune that was half-familiar but not something Prussia recognized. It was a nice tune, and it went well with the crackling of the fireplace.

After a while, he heard Poland move over to sit on the bed. "Has anyone told you what's happening to you, Prussia?"

He couldn't have stopped the shudder that ran through him if he'd tried: being called Prussia felt _wrong. _"I'm not him." But he _should_ be Prussia – he'd been Prussia for hundreds of years. It shouldn't feel alien to be called Prussia now.

"No, you're like, East Germany," Poland sounded too calm. "But you were Prussia before that."

Despite the way his heart seemed to be trying to jump out of his chest, Prussia turned to stare at the other nation.

Of all of the nations, after Hungary Poland was probably the one who knew him best. He'd been Poland's territory for a good part of his time as the Teutonic Knights, and then as the Duchy of Prussia. "What... what is this about?"

Poland smiled, a wry twist of his lips that looked wrong on him, and patted the bed. "You're confused and you don't know what's happening to you," he said calmly. "Your old memories are fading and starting to feel like they belong to somebody else, and you're forgetting what it is to be a strong nation."

Prussia's mouth fell open. How... how could Poland _know_? He hadn't said anything to anyone. Not that it was something he wanted to explain. It was one thing to be thought of as a new nation with some shared memories: that seemed to be normal from everyone else's reaction. But with what the Allies had wanted to do to him after the war, if they found out that this weak child's body was Prussia, they'd keep killing him until he stopped coming back.

He wasn't sure why Poland didn't seem to want to do the same thing: the other nation had certainly suffered enough at Prussia's hands.

Another one of those not-smiles from Poland. "You're becoming East Germany," he said. "In time, Prussia will just be vague memories and maybe some nightmares."

_Some_ nightmares? Prussia had lost track of how often he'd woken up screaming. It was enough that nobody checked on him anymore. Just another nightmare. His hands clenched into his pants.

"It's what happens when a nation falls and a new one is created in its place. Not many of us know how it works, and those that do... we don't talk about it." Poland sounded tired, weighed down by old grief. "I've been through it a few times now," he added. "I was lucky – I got to keep my name." He shrugged. "Sometimes it's a new body, sometimes you get to keep the old one. The soul doesn't change, though, and it's always dangerous because you don't fall unless you've just lost a war."

Memories of losing Holy Rome, of Germany, rose to Prussia's mind. He couldn't stop trembling.

Poland continued as though he was talking to himself. "If you're really lucky you get to be a territory or maybe a client-state like we are now. Other times you might have the winners trying to wipe out everything that made you who you were."

Prussia's eyes burned. Like what the Allies had done to him, trying to eliminate even the memory of Prussia, claiming _he_ was what made Germany go bad. Maybe he was, too: he didn't know anymore. His child's body wasn't able to think through that kind of thing without getting confused. "Should... should you be even talking about that?" Except that he was certain if England knew he wasn't a completely new nation, nothing would be able to protect him. England wouldn't stop until Prussia was gone, permanently.

Poland only laughed. "Humans can't handle this kind of thing," he said. "It's quite safe to talk about it. They'll just, like, wipe the tapes."

Poland wasn't supposed to be like this. He was supposed to be vague, fluffy, more concerned with his hair and nails and clothes – which were women's clothes half the time – than with anything serious. That was how Prussia remembered Poland, even from when he'd been the Teutonic Knights and the Duchy of Prussia.

It wasn't that Poland was confused or anything. He just liked what he liked, and the rest of the world could deal with it. Or not, as the case may be.

"Come, sit down. You'll get cold standing over there." Poland patted the bed again, a clear invitation to Prussia to join him.

Since Prussia could feel the chill leaking in through the gaps in the window frame, he climbed onto the bed and sat cross-legged as far from Poland as the bed allowed.

"You don't see it, do you?" Poland wasn't really asking. "You're not East Germany yet, Prussia." With his eyes half-closed and that not-quite-sad expression he looked much older than usual, wiser. "But you will be. When no one remains who was Prussian, when history is changed to eliminate Prussia altogether, then you will truly be East Germany."


	18. Chapter 18

Prussia woke screaming. That in itself wasn't anything new: the nightmares that plagued him – either his people's suffering or his worst memories brought him awake like this several times a week – but the lancing pain through his heart was different. Every breath was something between a gasp and a hoarse scream.

He needed several tries to get his hands to where it felt like his heart was being sawed in two, and when he did his pajamas were soaked with the slick, slimy feel of half-dried blood.

He couldn't call for help: he couldn't find enough breath.

Prussia was going to die again, but this time he was so weak he might not come back. He half wished he knew why. It hurt so much: this had to be something happening in his lands, something terrible.

He heard the door open, then too-bright light stabbed at his eyes. Moldova's scream did the same to his ears. The shriek of, "Big brother, quick! East's dying!" could possibly have roused the dead, except it didn't rouse Prussia, and he wasn't dead. Yet.

His awareness faded, contracting around the pain of his heart, until it was all he could do to breathe. And breathe. And breathe.

Thunder, footsteps rushing to him. Russia's voice, as though coming from a great distance. "East! Hold on, East. Stay with me."

Warm arms lifting him, warmth and strength supporting his body as he trembled and tried to breathe.

A curse in Polish, then Poland's voice, near hysterics. "Russia... his heart. _Look at his heart_."

His heart was bleeding, he was sure of that, but what did Poland see to make him react like that? The thought slipped away before Prussia could grasp it, lost in that unending pain and the struggle to breathe. To live.

Russia muttered a curse, then, in a more urgent voice, said, "East. Which city is your heart?"

But everyone knew that, didn't they? His old heart, Koenigsberg, was dead, a Russian oblast filled with Russians. Berlin had been his heart, shared with his brother, ever since he'd created the German Empire.

"...B'rl'n," he croaked, trying to focus, to hold on. To breathe.

"_Just_ Berlin?" Russia demanded. "Not East Berlin?"

Prussia couldn't think. There was something terribly wrong that Russia would be so urgent about something that was more or less trivial, but he couldn't think what. "...shared..." he managed. "Dunno... how..."

A brief silence, then Russia said, "My god. What have we done?" He actually sounded frightened, and Prussia hadn't heard Russia frightened except when Belarus was on one of her rampages.

It was too much. Too hard to think. Too hard to breathe.

"Hold on, East." Russia's panicked voice was like an anchor. "Latvia, bring bandages. Stop the bleeding."

"Keep him warm!" Prussia thought that was Estonia, who never seemed to panic no matter what was happening.

Hands around his, feeling hot against his skin, then Poland's voice. "Come on. You can take another breath."

He shuddered, gasping. It hurt so much, and all he wanted was for the pain to stop.

"That's right, East. One more."

He couldn't do it. All the words and the voices blurred into each other, fading off into a distant buzzing, and the darkness seeped through him, leaving numbness in its wake. It didn't hurt any more. That was good, right?

Then all was silent and dark and peaceful.


	19. Chapter 19

Everything was fuzzy, wrapped in a thick layer of warmth and comfort that he couldn't understand. His chest ached in a tight, something wrong with his heart kind of way, and his body had the leaden feel of coming back after dying.

That was one good thing. He'd come back. Whatever had happened to his heart, it hadn't killed him permanently.

Bed, he realized. He was lying on a bed, somewhere warm. Another good thing: someone seemed to be taking care of him.

So who was he? His memories were confused on that point. Some of them insisted he was Prussia, the once great and always awesome kingdom, albeit currently in a less than awesome situation. Others claimed he was East Germany, Soviet client-state and small child who was certainly _not_ awesome because awesome was a Prussia thing, not an East thing.

He couldn't just decide to be one or the other, either. Neither name, neither identity felt right. Prussia was too big for him, somehow, too much. But East didn't fit either: East was too small, too... no, East wasn't him either.

Both East and Prussia had a whole, undamaged heart. His heart wasn't whole – he could feel its limping beat, feel the echoing pulse from far to the west, from... Germany? Berlin? Yes, Berlin. Berlin was his heart, but the city was divided, split in two by... a wall?

He wasn't sure who would build a wall through the middle of a city, but it was there, leaving him with half a heart and so weak he wasn't sure he'd be able to wake all the way up. He wondered what would happen if he couldn't wake: would he slide back into unconsciousness and fade, or would he be trapped in this half-state, aware that he was fading but unable to do anything about it?

"East?" That sounded tentative, almost fearful. He didn't recognize the voice. He knew he should, but either he wasn't hearing right, or whoever it was didn't sound like they normally did.

Gentle fingers brushed his face, drawing back almost immediately. Weight he hadn't realized was there lifted from the bed, and he heard the click of shoes – boots? Or heels? - on the floor.

There was no mistaking the shout that followed. "He's breathing! East is breathing!" That was Hungary, even though her voice cracked and sounded like she'd been crying – which Hungary never did, ever.

Distant thunder which turned into running footsteps as what sounded like half the world raced towards him... towards his room? Did people really want him back that much?

The first twitch of movement meant he really was going to come all the way back and not fade. He tried to open his eyes, and managed to half-blink a few times before his eyes actually opened.

"East." Russia's weight settled on the bed, tipping him towards the bigger nation. "It is good you are back with us, yes? I feared we would lose you."

He blinked a few more times. He must be East, since that was what everyone was calling him... so why did he want to think of himself as Prussia? Maybe he was both. East on the outside and Prussia on the inside. Yes, that felt right.

"Wha..." His voice didn't sound right. It wasn't the small-child voice he'd grown used to as East, but it also wasn't the harsher voice of Prussia, roughened by years of shouting commands over battlefields.

Apparently his surprise showed on his face, because Russia – who was looking awfully like he was about to cry – started to laugh, that not-quite-hysterical laughter people got when they'd prepared for the worst and relief was flooding through them. "East... Dear god, _East_." Russia shook his head and wiped his eyes. "You... died. You were gone for nearly a week."

The Prussia-memories told him he'd had worse. East's child-self was less happy about it. "I died?" That odd new voice... did it mean he'd grown? It was definitely an older voice, like he'd managed to avoid living through the joys of his voice breaking. Again, the Prussia-self reminded him.

At least this time he wasn't also dealing with superstitious people who thought he was a demon. Being left-handed and looking weird in the middle ages was anything but awesome. There were a few places he'd escaped just barely ahead of the crowd of frightened villagers with pitchforks and scythes.

The ones he hadn't escaped, well, being burned as a witch was marginally better than being thrown into the river afterwards, but neither was something he wanted to deal with ever again.

"Yes," Russia said simply. "I am very sorry, little one." He looked apologetic, too. "I did not know your heart was shared."

Now he stared, trying to make sense of the confused memories from just before he'd died and what he felt now.

"My boss and your boss," the big nation explained. "They decided to build a wall so your people would have to accept you."

Prussia blinked.

"It cut your heart in two and half of it went... west."

To Germany. He could feel that, the echo of his half of their shared heart.

Russia looked miserable now, as though he expected to be hated for what had happened. "You must go to live in East Berlin now, yes. If you are in the city, it will sustain you. If you are not there when your brother must go elsewhere, we may lose you, yes."


	20. Chapter 20

Despite the weakness that came with having only half a heart, less than a week passed before Russia drove him to the apartment in East Berlin he'd arranged. Prussia didn't argue: he didn't have the energy, and besides he was still adjusting to having gone from a child of maybe ten to about the age he'd been in his Duchy of Prussia years.

He supposed he was now around fifteen or sixteen by human standards, although with nations it was difficult to tell. They could stay small children for centuries then all but overnight burst into their adult form if the circumstances were right.

At any rate, he _looked_ like a fifteen-year-old, albeit a sickly one. Russia thought that the wall had forced him to age: with it and the border fences, his people were trapped in his lands, left with little choice but to accept that they were East German. That there would not be a united Germany any time soon.

The flood of defectors had already slowed, Russia told him, and with his people in his land he would grow stronger.

Prussia didn't say anything to that. He could hardly call Russia a liar, but the note of wistful hope in Russia's voice told him the bigger nation didn't really believe that East Germany would ever be anything but a client-state dependent on Russia for practically everything.

It wasn't that his people couldn't do things for themselves, but the way Russia's bosses had dismantled every factory that was still half-intact – in the name of 'reparations' – and hauled it back to Russia meant that Prussia was starting from next to nothing with a boss who was more interested in building his personal power than building his nation. He wasn't going to be strong, ever.

Especially not when he knew his people didn't want this, didn't want _him_. When he wasn't tied down by his boss's orders, he had to help them however he could: it was part of what nations were. They were their land, and their people. The boss represented the people, but when the boss didn't represent the people but oppressed them and used them for his own dreams of power, that was when things got ugly.

Russia had retreated into madness after being ordered to open fire on his own people. Germany had lost his soul in the thirties, entranced by a madman with the ability to enthrall crowds – or nations. That human's hold hadn't been broken until he died in his bunker under Berlin. It destroyed nations to be forced to harm the people they existed to protect and serve, turned them into monsters.

No, Prussia had no illusions about his likely fate. While the wall was there, he'd do what he could for his people, get as many across the border as possible and work against his government – it wouldn't be the first time, although it might be the last. When the wall came down, he'd unify with his brother, and that... would be the end. The last vestiges of Prussia would be gone, and East Germany gone with them.

If he made it to heaven Old Fritz would kick him all the way to hell for losing his kingdom. It would be no less than he deserved, but he couldn't think of any time or place where he'd choose differently.

Even knowing the risks he'd be taking he couldn't change his mind. It was what had to be, and that was all there was.

The long drive finally ended at an anonymous apartment block not far from a subway station. The line was one of the ones that ran into the central part of the city, he thought, which meant that Russia had found him a place where his weak heart wouldn't leave him too isolated. There were small shops along the road, mostly dreary and empty-looking, but they existed: he'd be able to use his allowance from his boss for whatever passed for luxury items, and presumably get his rations from them.

If his boss didn't simply have whatever the man thought he'd need delivered to the apartment: it wouldn't be the first time something like that happened. For some reason bosses thought it demeaning for their nations to buy things like ordinary humans did. Most of Prussia's bosses – except for the Teutonic Knights, who were big on things like poverty and modesty and self-reliance – had assigned him servants to run his house and do everything for him except for the things he as the nation _had_ to do. Some of his later kings there'd been servants to dress him and servants to undress him and servants to bathe him. He'd drawn the line at servants to help him pee – some of them would have happily held his awesome five meters for him and that was just wrong – and he'd _never_ allowed anyone else to handle his weapons. His weapons were part of him, part of his history.

He hoped Germany was looking after them, even though as East the idea of even _being_ armed seemed strange.

The apartment itself was decent enough: one of the newer style where a single large – for values of large that would still fit entirely inside Russia's dining room – room served as living, dining, and kitchen, a modest bathroom, and a bedroom. It was furnished with a battered table and two mismatched wooden chairs – likely salvaged from one of the many structures that had never been repaired or replaced – and a couch that looked to Prussia as though it might have been new in the 30s. A shelf with a radio ran along one wall, and the kitchen had an oven, a refrigerator, and a sink. Nothing smelled moldy or stale.

The bedroom was similar – a small room with the bare essentials, everything old but functional. The entire apartment was probably no larger than his room at Russia's house – but then, Russia's house _was_ an old palace, and everything was built to palatial scale. This apartment was more cozy. More something he could look after on his own.

He smiled at Russia. "Thank you."

Russia's smile was tentative. "You like it, yes?"

"Yes, I do." Since he'd come back with half a heart, Prussia had been prone to dizziness and near-fainting if he moved too quickly. Russia had found him a walking stick in one of his store rooms – Prussia suspected if someone looked long enough they'd find _anything_ in there – and it had been his constant companion since then.

Now he leaned on it to walk to Russia and hug the bigger nation. "You've done so much for me, Russia, and you didn't have to do any of it." Russia could have simply left Prussia to fend for himself. Or worse. Instead he'd been a constant protector, caring in a way Prussia couldn't remember anyone else in his life ever being.

Russia blinked a few times, swiped the back of his hand across his eyes. "I will miss you, East."

"But you will be visiting, won't you?" Prussia asked. After living in Russia's house with all his other dependents it was going to be strange on his own. Lonely.

Russia smiled then, the bright, truly happy smile that was so rare for him. "Of course, East. So will the others who live near you." He looked around the apartment, then he said, "Now, we should eat, then we are meeting with your boss, yes."


	21. Chapter 21

Meeting his boss – something Prussia had figured was inevitable – was less unpleasant than he'd expected. Russia's presence looming silently behind Prussia might have had a little to do with this: with his height and bulk, Russia seemed to loom at the best of times. When he had that icy aura about him he unnerved just about everyone.

Prussia was used to it, so he just kept on smiling politely and making small talk – which bothered the man even more.

It was obvious Ulbricht wasn't impressed by his nation – or rather, by his nation being so weak – but he was smart enough to avoid that topic with Russia in the room, and Prussia in turn made sure to casually mention that Russia would be a frequent visitor.

He wouldn't be able to fight for his people for a long time – if ever – but there were other ways to help them, and he'd use every one he could.

When Ulbricht made a sharp comment about babysitting invalids, Prussia inclined his head. "I could still pick you up and throw you out the window, Comrade." He nodded towards the window overlooking the Wall. "I wonder if the guards would presume that you were trying to defect?"

Russia broke his silence then. "Manners, East. You are not to be antagonizing your boss, yes."

He leaned back against the bigger nation. "Sorry, Russia. It's so frustrating, not being what I could be." Which was true, although it had nothing to do with his dig at his boss.

Ulbricht tugged at his goatee, frowning.

Russia laid a hand on Prussia's shoulder. "You must remember, Comrade Ulbricht, East is very young. Impulsive. He will say things that perhaps are better not said." A polite way to say that Prussia would blurt out something horribly rude – or worse, the truths the communists didn't want spoken. "I have protected him until now."

Prussia could almost feel Russia's smile. "Now, Comrade, you must protect him. I would be terribly disappointed if any harm came to my little East while he is in your care, yes."

Ulbricht's anger vanished, overwhelmed by fear. As the boss of a client-state, he ranked below Russia and he clearly knew it. Russia could order Prussia to kill the man, and there would be no repercussions for Prussia. Russia's bosses probably wouldn't appreciate anything that extreme, though – and it wasn't something a nation did lightly, ordering a subordinate boss around.

The man swallowed, pressed his hands against his trousers as though trying to blot sweat away. "I... understand your concern, Comrade Russia." He didn't sound as calm as he was trying to be. "I will do everything in my power to protect East Germany."

"Even if he does something... regrettable, yes?" Russia's tone didn't allow for argument.

Prussia kept his face as calm as he could, even though his half-heart tightened in his chest. Something 'regrettable' meant getting caught helping his people escape, or working against his government. And _that_ meant Russia's basement, or the Stasi basements here.

The human took an involuntary step back. "There are limits, Comrade Russia," he said in a tight voice.

Prussia leaned back against Russia with his eyes closed. He didn't want to think about this and it made his chest hurt so much.

"Do you know what happens when a nation truly dies, Comrade?" Russia asked softly. "Do you know what that would do to your precious dream?"

Yes, he _was_ that fragile, but Prussia really preferred not to think about that. If he did he'd scare himself to death.

Russia's arms wrapped around him, solid and comforting. He wasn't finished with Ulbricht, though. "East's heart is torn in two. If he dies he may not come back." There was an edge to Russia's voice that suggested he thought the man would have trouble understanding anything less simple. "If he does not come back, the nation is gone. It will return to being Germany, yes. I do not think you would enjoy that, Comrade."

_That_ was the kind of understatement that bordered on outright lie. Anyone who killed Prussia permanently would be facing a vengeful Russia – and possibly a vengeful Germany as well, if his suspicions held true. The human in that situation had best commit suicide quickly, because both Russia and Germany knew how to make someone sincerely wish for death.

Ulbricht knew it, too, because he paled, and backed up a few steps more. "I... I understand," he said in a shaky voice. "I will protect him."

"With your life," Russia said softly.

Ulbricht winced. Prussia smelled the result of his fear before he saw the damp patch start to spread on the man's trousers, and quickly averted his eyes. There was no point making an enemy of the man when he'd need his protection.

"With my life, Comrade Russia."


	22. Chapter 22

Prussia's apartment was already uncomfortably warm when someone knocked on the door. "I'm coming," he called, and walked over, leaning on his walking stick. The military uniform – why the boss insisted on him having a general's rank when he was clearly useless for military action was beyond him. It didn't project an image of strength:quite the opposite. A fifteen-year-old who needed a cane to walk more than a few steps did not look any more authoritative in a general's uniform than he did in any other kind of clothing.

Two of his Stasi escort waited at the door, both men looking uncomfortable in their dress uniforms. Not that Prussia blamed them. It was going to be a hot day, and the dress uniforms were more suited to the cooler weather of months other than August.

At least the bosses had acceded to Russia's insistence that the Warsaw Pact nation meetings be held in Berlin... _East _Berlin. Despite the Wall, Prussia could not think of his divided, broken heart as anything other than its whole self. As Berlin, not East and West. The bosses met elsewhere, usually Warsaw or Moscow, but the nations met in Berlin because Prussia – East Germany – could not leave the city.

Prussia – in deference to his half heart – wasn't required to stay at the Soviet Embassy while the meetings were on: instead members of his Stasi bodyguard detail arrived in the morning with a car to take him to the Embassy, and would drive him back in the evening.

He smiled at the two men. Both were in their early twenties, the kind of clean-cut young man the Party loved to feature in their propaganda. "Good morning, Walther, Franz. If one of you would be so kind as to fetch my briefcase from the table, I'm ready."

Even though he'd spent the last year walking every day, to strengthen his body and lungs so his damaged heart didn't have to do so much work, he had to lean on his walking stick and keep a death-grip on the handrail to get down the half-dozen stairs between the building lobby and the sidewalk. Ordinarily one or another of his neighbors would help, but not when the Stasi were here.

It didn't matter that Prussia's bodyguard group was entirely younger members who weren't fully trusted for the _real_ business of the Stasi. They were Stasi, and people who were too outspoken or who simply happened to upset the wrong person would get a visit from a Stasi detail and never be seen again. None of his neighbors would leave their apartments until he was in the car and driven away, and when he returned they'd be quietly relieved that this wasn't a disappearance.

Once in the Trabant, Prussia leaned back against the seat. When his escorts closed the doors, he said, "Has your brother received his results, yet, Franz?"

The taller of the two men smiled happily. "Yes, Comrade East. We received the letter yesterday: he has the highest grade possible on the _Abitur._"

Prussia returned the smile. "Congratulations. You must all be very proud."

"Oh, yes." Franz looked as though he was going to have real problems keeping the official expressionless face when they arrived. "Mother is telling _everyone_."

Walther chuckled softly without looking away from the road. "Franz, your mother is the biggest gossip this side of the Spree."

The rest of the journey passed pleasantly enough, with Prussia chatting with his escorts. Back when he'd actually been Prussia he would never have been so familiar with humans, but as the weak child-nation of East Germany, this helped his people to accept him. They might not like his government, but they could respect their nation.

He doubted this would be enough to save him when he reunified with his brother, but in the meantime it helped him to get through each day – and it irritated his boss, which was something of a bonus.

Both men helped him to the large conference room of the Embassy, a room entirely too plush for the equality its usual occupants supposedly wanted. The well-padded leather chairs belonged in a Western corporate office, and there was even climate control keeping the room from becoming too hot. He'd have to make some pointed observations on Marxist values the next time he had to sign an approval for maintenance on the Embassy complex.

He was first to arrive: his escorts got him settled in one of the leather chairs before arranging the contents of his briefcase for him and fetching coffee. Soon after that, he heard an animated conversation in Russian: Hungary and Poland competing over who would look better in red lingerie.

He buried his head in his hands, face burning. Not even his Prussia-memories wanted to imagine _that_. Besides, the answer was unquestionably Hungary.

"Oh! East! Are you all right?" Hungary hurried over to his side.

Prussia sighed and raised his head. "I'm fine, Hungary," he said. "But I really didn't need to hear you and Poland just now."

Poland laughed from behind him. "You think that's bad, East? You should have seen _Russia's_ face!"

He could imagine. He didn't particularly want to, but he could imagine.


	23. Chapter 23

Unlike the League of Nations meetings Prussia had attended – those had invariably degenerated into a brawl of some sort, so much that it had been a relief when they'd finally got their act together and expelled Germany – the Warsaw Pact nation meeting was orderly and relatively well run.

Of course, the fact that nobody was going to say anything against _Russia_ pretty much guaranteed an orderly meeting: Russia would state the current point in the agenda, then each of them in turn would give a heavily edited version of what they thought, softening any criticism and boosting any praise while Estonia took notes.

Prussia had no doubt that Ukraine and Lithuania were running the kitchen, since both Latvia and Belarus were bringing in fresh coffee. They might all be Russia's favored SSRs, but none of them were allegedly independent nations, so Russia spoke for them.

The rest of them had a say, but they all knew it wasn't a real voice. If they put their case well enough they might be able to convince Russia to argue for them, but mostly it was simpler to just accept whatever Russia's boss had decreed.

He was partway through explaining his boss's arguments – ones Prussia knew too well had already been made directly to Russia's boss, and refused – when the pain hit. His hands rose to his heart, clutching uselessly at his chest, and his vision darkened, blurred.

_So close to freedom... the barbed wire topping the western wall fell away from him and pain exploded from his hip. A moment's blackness as the ground knocked the breath from his lungs, then he lay against the wall, less than a meter from freedom but he couldn't reach it, couldn't move past the pain. He begged, pleaded for someone – anyone – to help him, but nobody came. _

_The guards, blurred shapes against scattered vision, they stayed where they were. He knew they'd shoot any westerner who tried to help. _

_Pain, white against his eyes, and he screamed but all he could hear was a hazy whimper. _

"East!"

Prussia fought his way free of the tangle of pain and fear, struggling to focus on the voices, on the way his half heart burned. That was his, East Germany's pain, not the agony from shattered pelvic bones that belonged to the dying boy.

"East, what is it?" Russia's voice, tight with worry.

"Wall," he croaked. "S..someone dying there..." The boy's suffering tried to drag him back, and part of him wanted to go, _needed_ to be with the boy. It was only the Wall that did this to him. The deaths in the Stasi basements, the disappearances, the executions for spurious crimes... those hurt, but not the way the ones who died at the Wall did.

It didn't matter how they died, whether they were border guards or trying to escape, or even just a drunk fool who managed to drown in the Spree. The Wall cut his heart in half and the wound couldn't heal, and any of his people who died there hurt far more than any other death.

Russia's arms around him, warm, comforting. "Is is always like this, East?" Now he sounded sad.

Prussia tried to say it was, but all that came out was a hiss.

The boy's pain rose again – he was only eighteen, there was nothing about him that was unusual or outstanding until he and his friend and workmate decided to try to cross the Wall, picking a time to make their dash when the guards were busy and distracted so they'd have the best chance. His friend had made it over: he hadn't.

Prussia felt it all, knew the boy as though he'd lived his life, felt the pain and despair and confusion as the boy bled out, moaning and begging for help that would never come.

The Teutonic Knight-self, the part of him that was a fully ordained priest – something Prussia had never revealed to anyone except the Popes – that part rose to take control of the connection between him and the dying boy. To give the boy the last rites and be with him until the end.

He did that for all the Wall deaths. He couldn't _not_.

_It didn't hurt now. The solid, impossible presence holding him kept the pain away, and banished the darkness, replacing it with soft light. The light washed everything away except the knowledge that he wasn't alone. That nothing he had done was in vain. Then there was only light, and peace._

Prussia shuddered, pulling away. He hated that part. Some of them didn't go to light, despite his best efforts, and he knew – too well – that the light wasn't to be his fate, when the time came. He'd caused too much misery, hurt too many people. At least the boy's suffering was over.

He heard argument, Russia's cold, angry voice and Hungary sounding sharper, more bitter. He couldn't help wondering if she knew what Poland did.

The knock on the conference room door startled everyone, it seemed.

In the sudden hush, Prussia heard Walther's voice. "I apologize for the interruption, Comrades, but Comrade East has an urgent call from Comrade Ulbricht."

Well, wasn't that a surprise? Prussia couldn't bring himself to open his eyes, so his boss would have to wait to yell at him.

"No." Russia's tone brooked no argument. "If Comrade Ulbricht wishes to speak with East he will come to us. East is not well enough to go to him."

He could hear Walther's voice trembling. "What message should I give, Comrade Russia?"

Russia's answer probably shocked the poor man. "I will speak to him. He will ignore you."


	24. Chapter 24

To say that Prussia's boss was displeased was to severely understate matters. By the time he stormed into the conference room, Prussia had recovered enough to be sitting in one of the leather chairs instead of lying on the carpet with his head in someone's lap, but he still looked paler than Russia's snowfields, and he leaned his head against the back of the chair and kept his eyes closed while he sipped coffee.

He couldn't entirely suppress amusement at the way the man just started berating his nation without bothering to see who else was there. Admittedly, Russia wasn't actually _in_ the room at the time – he'd gone to the adjoining kitchen to check on something with Lithuania – but still... It didn't exactly make a good impression.

Prussia was used to the lectures. He got this every time someone tried to cross the border: he wasn't doing enough to discourage flight, he set a bad example, he encouraged traitors to the people... The accusations never changed, just the order and how much venom was behind them.

This time, though, he didn't get a chance to wait for his boss to run out of air.

Russia's voice cut through the tirade. "Have you no eyes, Comrade? Does East look like he encourages these things?"

Prussia knew very well he looked dreadful. He suspected he looked like he might die any moment, although he wasn't quite that weak.

He was a little surprised to hear Poland say, "And, like, he only has half a heart, so you should be nice to him."

Prussia had to speak up at that. "Poland, it's a sweet thought, but 'pity the poor cripple' isn't going to help here." Despite his efforts to sound neutral, all he managed was tired.

"How else can I say it, then?" Poland wanted to know. "You do only have half a heart, and you can't, like, do much."

"Poland!" Hungary clicked her tongue. "Didn't anyone ever teach you manners?"

Apparently Ulbricht didn't appreciate being ignored. "German Democratic Republic! Are you listening to me?"

Prussia didn't bother to try to hide weariness or sarcasm when he said, "Yes, Comrade. I am a disgrace to Socialism, a disgrace to the Party, and a disgrace to my own name, and if it wasn't for Comrade Russia's protection you would have me in the Stasi basement before I could blink." He didn't open his eyes. "Was there anything else, Comrade Ulbricht, or shall I honorably remove myself from your life now?"

"East!" Russia sounded panicked. "Don't you dare!"

Prussia sighed. "I'm not serious, Russia. I just get tired of the same lecture every single time." He shook his head slowly. "It's not like there's anything I can actually _do_ about it."

Russia made a sound Prussia couldn't interpret, then he said in a low voice that positively oozed menace, "Comrade Ulbricht, do you truly desire to renounce your nation? If so I can arrange for you to be taken to the west and have your position taken by one who will appreciate what he has." A pause, enough for the man to draw breath, but not so much he had time to start to speak. "I suspect after today they will not be merciful. The policy to withhold medical care is, after all, yours."

All of which was true, even if the 'medical care' was nothing more than the relative mercy of a quick death. Russia hadn't even mentioned the shooting orders, which would probably make Western politicians even less happy.

Not that they'd get the chance: Ulbricht wouldn't challenge Russia. Without Russia's support, Russia's troops, East Germany couldn't stand.

Belarus spoke then, her voice cold enough to send a chill through everyone in the room. "Is this human bothering Brother?"

Russia's tone shifted to a gentler one. "No, Sister, he is not bothering me. He is very ignorant, but he can learn, yes?"

After that, Ulbricht couldn't get out of the room fast enough.


	25. Chapter 25

When the latest burst of pain subsided, Prussia realized he'd fallen to the floor and lay curled on the faded carpet of his living room, listening to his people... no, they were no longer his people. The Wall was broken, twenty eight years of living with half a heart ended.

The missing half hadn't returned yet, and Prussia doubted it would. No, the half of his heart that had sustained him all these years would go to his brother, where it belonged.

He wished it would hurry up and get on with it.

The moment the border guards had stepped back and just let people through he'd collapsed, agony surging through him as the barriers between his half of Berlin and his brother's half began to fall away. He'd felt every piece of shattered concrete as a knife in his battered half heart, what little strength he had bleeding from him as his people streamed west, seeking the hope and opportunity they'd been denied for so long.

He didn't try to get up. It might be about as dishonorable a death as a nation could suffer, fading away as his people fled from him, but he couldn't fight and it was what they wanted.

His time was done. As Prussia, he'd been effectively gone since his brother had forced him to unify, and East Germany should never have been given existence. It was nothing more than a shadow, a way for the Soviets to legitimize their continued hold over part of Germany.

Besides he was tired of being trapped in this weak body, tired of the unending pain, and so very tired of never knowing for sure just who or what he was. Of having flashes of the Kingdom of Prussia emerge when he was trying to be properly deferential East Germany, or worse, having the Teutonic Knights take over. The Duchy of Prussia moments weren't so bad, since that was a time he'd had to keep his head down and avoid drawing too much attention, something that was essential for a nation with communist boss.

Strange how after so long fighting to stay alive, to survive however he could, he didn't fear death now. The prospect of finally getting to rest, even if Old Fritz _did_ kick his arse from heaven to hell and back, was just too attractive. It seemed he'd been fighting for survival for all but a handful of his many years. Fighting to make his lands – nothing special, but _his_ – his nation a place to be proud of. And getting kicked in the teeth every time he'd managed to build something decent.

His brother's betrayal... God, would that never stop haunting him? He'd known before the Preussenschlag his brother was completely controlled by his boss: why couldn't he forgive Germany for something he'd not been able to stop? Something he'd done while he wasn't himself?

Prussia knew the answer, much as he hated to admit it to himself. He'd _trusted_ his brother as he'd never trusted anyone else in his life. Besides, he hadn't forgiven _himself_ for the things he'd done while Germany controlled him, so why was it so strange his mind kept circling back to that... abomination?

It didn't matter. Soon enough all that would be gone, ashes. He hoped Old Fritz would put in a good word for him, because otherwise he wouldn't need the old man's boots to send him to hell. His soul was more than black enough for that – but at least he'd earned that honestly.

He heard sounds nearby, people talking, and almost smiled at the simple normality. Even in the strangest circumstances life went on. It was good to be reminded of that, to realize that it wasn't all wars and conquest, that the affairs of nations rested on the shoulders of millions of humans living out their short lives, working, loving, raising their children...

It was too easy to forget that.

The growing darkness closed around him, the last faint sound that reached him a sharp splintering noise and someone calling him. He hoped they'd forgive him his weakness.

It would be nice to see Old Fritz again.


	26. Chapter 26

Germany paced his living room, the television silent. He'd turned off the unending news broadcasts showing people dismantling the Wall, showing that magical moment when they'd first streamed through the gates to freedom. He couldn't bear to watch them.

His brother hadn't come.

He wasn't even sure _what_ his brother was. Not Prussia, not after finding the empty clothes and Prussia's cross. Not after seeing the frightened child-nation Russia had called East Germany.

But there was still something of Prussia there: he knew that as surely as he knew himself to be Germany. The people who'd fled west, with their insistence Gilbert sent them, the few who could describe the red-eyed boy who'd done the unthinkable and told ordinary humans what he was. The ones that came later, over the Wall and their tales of a red-eyed teenager with silver-white hair and a cane who said that he had only half a heart and that Germany had the other half.

It had taken him a long time to realize that something of Prussia survived. The horror when he'd realized what he'd done under that creature's control had blocked everything else – even the pain of the lost war, the suffering of his people and the way he'd been divided between his conquerors. It took nearly ten years to realize that Prussia's bird was still with him, still healthy, and when he'd looked inside himself, afraid of what he'd see there, the link he'd created when he'd dissolved his brother's nation and made them one remained.

The way his heart had split when the Wall was built confirmed it: whatever East Germany was, he was also Prussia somehow. There was still hope. Still a chance he could atone for some of the sins he'd committed against his brother.

Being Germany, and knowing how little he was trusted – and how much less Prussia had been trusted – God, it made him sick to think they'd blamed _Prussia_ for everything when he'd been as much a victim as Austria – Germany hadn't said anything to anyone. But he'd researched.

He'd tracked down everything he could find about how nations worked, read through all of his brother's diaries including the fake ones full of how awesome he was and the real, much more thoughtful diaries Prussia kept even more securely concealed. After the unification, Germany knew everything Prussia knew, so there were no secrets from him, but even he had been challenged getting to and opening his brother's hidden vaults.

Germany had even swallowed his pride and asked both Italies how they'd avoided the stronger absorbing the weaker. He had no idea if they realized why he'd asked, but between them Veniciano and Romano had given him the last piece of the puzzle. He hoped.

It wasn't final: it couldn't be, not until all the political implications were resolved. But it should be enough – and he prayed it would be as he had never prayed in his life – to keep his brother alive until everything was settled. All he needed now was his brother's signature and a drop of his brother's blood. He'd provided his signature and blood the night the border gates opened.

A wave of dizziness and pain rolled over him: he clutched at the couch and closed his eyes, panting. His half of their shared heart hurt more now than it had when the Wall first went up: it seemed to know that there was nothing save his brother's presence to keep it from joining with its lost half once again.

_But his brother hadn't come_.

Was Russia holding him back? No... Russia had been protective of the child-nation. He remembered that clearly. The pull should have been impossible to resist: it took all Germany's self-control not to run out into Berlin – _just_ Berlin now, not East and West – to find his brother, even knowing that if he did that he'd likely not get more than a kilometer or so before his half heart couldn't take the exertion.

He heard a car pulling up outside, stumbled to the door, hoping that this time it would be his brother and not someone coming to either congratulate him or warn him against returning to his old warlike ways. His half-heart tightened painfully when he saw Russia emerge from the old black Zil that had become a vintage vehicle – one owner, that owner being Russia himself – and walk around to the passenger side to gently extract his sleeping passenger.

Yes, it _was_ his brother.

He swallowed in a dry mouth, chest aching and breathing more difficult the closer they came. "Please, come in." His voice wasn't steady either. "I... there may be a way that he can survive."

Russia looked up, hope dawning in his eyes.

Germany wondered how he could have ever thought this man looked blank. It was nothing more than a mask, no more than the non-expression he affected to protect his thoughts and emotions. "I will need something like a signature from him, and a drop of his blood."

He tried not to look at the painfully thin figure in Russia's arms, not to see the too-familiar shock of silver-white hair. Not to get too close, lest their heart rejoin before he'd done all he could to ensure his brother survived. "Will you help?"

Russia looked from Germany to the table where the contract lay, a pen sitting neatly on the paper. After a moment, he nodded. "I will help, yes." His voice was heavy, thick with pain.

Germany drew the door closed. "Thank you." He swallowed again, sat across from Russia. "I... I didn't want to destroy him. This was all I could think of."

"I too want East to live," Russia said in that slow, pained voice. "He has been like a son to me, yes."

Germany swallowed again, though his throat was dry and ached. "I... don't... I can't touch him until it's signed."

"Ah. Apologies." Moving awkwardly, Russia clasped East's limp fingers around the pen, guiding his hand to scrawl something on the page.

East shuddered, and a trickle of blood came from his mouth. Russia's smile when he used the contract to blot a little of the blood away held more irony and pain that Germany would have thought he could feel. "That should be enough, yes?"

Germany nodded. "I should only need to touch him." He took a deep, unsteady breath. "I'll probably scream and pass out."

"I will do what I can for you, Germany." Russia said then. "You are trying to save my little East: I will help you."

"Thank you." Another breath, then Germany carefully pulled the blanket away from his brother, from the too-thin face with cheekbones so sharp they looked like they might break the skin at any moment. Before his straining half heart could push him to more, before he could panic and flee, he gently pulled his brother into a gentle embrace, touched his lips to the too-pale cheek.

And screamed.


	27. Chapter 27

He died in flames, burned by his own people because of his red eyes, his unnaturally pale skin. He drowned, bound so tight he couldn't move and thrown into the river. Swords cut him open and he bled until his life faded away. He was tortured until he died and when he came back he was tortured again. He was shot, stabbed, killed in so many, many ways, sometimes by his people, sometimes by enemies, sometimes by those who should have been friends.

He was the nameless child who fought to protect a frightened people the world came to know as Prussians, the little Teutonic Knight wielding a sword longer than he was tall. He was a fragile empire in Austria's care, wishing he could be as strong as his Teutonic Knight brother but never quite brave enough to fight his guardians for that, never quite willing to leave the safety of Austria's house for a world where he would have no friends. The quiet, sober Duchy who nonetheless fought fiercely when he had to. The wild, fierce, Kingdom of Prussia. The frail boy rescued from the ruins of Austerlitz who worshiped his brother Prussia. The man at the height of his power who would suffer any injury to protect his brother Germany. The mighty empire spanning much of Europe.

He was all of them, all at once, knight and empire and duchy and republic and kingdom. Prussia and Germany, Teutonic Knights and Holy Roman Empire, East and West.

Pain roared through him, raw and fierce and harsh, his split heart mending and growing and his form shifting to what it should be, what it should always have been. One nation, two souls, two bodies. One people, split and splintered and lost no longer.

Germany. He was Germany.

The pain ebbed, and he realized he slumped in a chair as though he'd passed out. He probably had. Not even being killed by France hurt that much.

Germany blinked. He remembered. Remembered things he knew _he_ had never done, but more than that, he understood all those odd little flashes of deja vu Italy Veneziano brought. Now he knew why the smaller man was so familiar, why it felt like he'd known the man his whole life. He remembered being Holy Rome, a bit distanced, as though dying had severed the immediacy of those memories.

That wasn't something he'd expected.

He hadn't really known what to expect: he'd only hoped.

Turning his head was one of the hardest things he'd ever done. Not just because he hadn't felt this weak since he'd been a small child in Prussia's care, either. He was afraid he'd see... nothing. Empty clothes and no brother beside him.

His aching heart tightened in his chest when, instead of the outcome he feared, his gaze met Russia's. The most feared nation in the world was crying openly, tears streaming down his face as he cradled the sleeping form of Prussia. Prussia as he'd been at his peak, before the wars and the unification drained his energy and left him looking tired and bitter.

He was unconscious, too pale, but he breathed normally, and Germany could feel Prussia's heartbeat as an echo of his own. Could feel his brother's health returning, his strength building back to what it had once been.

"It worked." His voice was barely a whisper: breath given shape.

Russia nodded. "Yes."

They waited, Germany too worn to move, Russia unwilling to release his embrace.

Finally, Prussia stirred. He groaned, made a face. "Ow... that hurts..." Blinked several times, looking around as much as he could without moving his head. Finally he said in a soft, bewildered voice, "Not that I'm ungrateful or anything, but... who am I now?"

While Germany fumbled for an answer, Russia said, "You are still East, yes?"

Prussia swallowed. "I... I don't know. I was East. And before that I was Prussia."

"Germany." The word was out of his mouth before he realized what he was going to say.

Prussia turned to stare at him so fast Germany swore he heard something crack. "But you..."

"We're _both_ Germany." It felt right. "It won't be final until the politics are done." He pushed past the weariness, the pain, to take his brother's hands. "But it will happen, brother. You and I are one, now, but not as master and subordinate. As equals."

Prussia studied him for a moment, then he smiled. "So long as England isn't going to try to add several kilograms of lead to my chest cavity, I think I can deal with that."

Germany couldn't stop the smile that crept onto his face. "I think between me and Russia we can convince him it would be a bad idea."

Prussia turned. "Russia? You brought me here?"

Russia nodded. "Yes." His face had gone back to its usual mask.

Prussia's hug was more like collapsing on the bigger man. "Thank you."

Well, that was going to be something to get used to. Germany didn't think he'd have much trouble: a more open, less hostile version of his brother who wasn't afraid to acknowledge someone as a friend would be a lot easier to get on with than the prickly, often hostile and paranoid Prussia Germany had grown up with.

Not that Prussia didn't have good reason for paranoia, but... Now he could heal and become what he'd always fought for.

Russia's eyes opened wide, and his smile was bright, filled with startled happiness. "I had to help my little East, yes."

Prussia chuckled softly. "Not quite so little, now," he said. "And who knows what madness the bosses will send at us next." He leaned his head against Russia's chest. "But if you want to be friends... Just Ivan and Gilbert -"

"And Ludwig," Germany put in. His brother's relaxation in Russia's presence said more than anything else could: if his brother trusted Russia, then Germany was willing to trust the man too.

"And Ludwig," Prussia agreed. "I'd like that."

#

Despite Germany's house being on the outskirts of Berlin, the sound of fireworks and parties could be heard in the living room where four nations lounged on the couch. Prussia leaned against Russia with a small smile on his face, and Italy sat on Germany's lap with his head resting on the bigger nation's shoulder.

It had been an... interesting year, and Prussia was thankful everything was settled. More things than he'd hoped for, actually, and some of them faster than he'd thought possible. Not that he minded.

"Well." Germany closed his eyes briefly. "That's that. We can start moving forward now."

Prussia nodded. "And give eyebrows and face-fungus fits at the next meeting." He was looking forward to that part. "You handled the negotiations beautifully, brother."

Germany's smile was one that had been Prussia's: a fierce grin that lit his face, half wild joy and half a predator's anticipation. "Thank you, brother. I learned from the best."

Russia shifted where he sat. "I must be going home, yes." He sighed. "My boss is wanting me for something in the morning."

Prussia made a face. "All bosses do that." His bosses hadn't been all that reasonable lately, either. "Give everyone my best, and remind them we're hosting Christmas this year." He grinned. "Hopefully Belarus will have forgiven me for not being able to be her page boy at your wedding."

Russia snorted. "She will be waiting long for that." He shook his head and rose from the couch. "We will come for Christmas." A faintly wistful expression flickered across his face before his usual blank-eyed little smile returned. "It has been a long time since we have celebrated Christmas in any way."

Italy waited until Russia was gone before he snuggled closer to Germany. "Can we go to bed now, Germany?"

"No fair!" Prussia made sure to smile to show he was joking. "My brother gets the cute Italy and I have to sleep alone."

Germany returned the smile. "Ah, but then there are the times you get the hot Russian and I have to sleep alone. I say we're even."

All three laughed, then Prussia said in a gentler tone, "Let's go sleep. We've all got a busy day tomorrow." The world didn't stop because East and West Germany were now simply Germany, and to Prussia's mind, that was a good thing. He had a future now: that was enough.


End file.
